


Hope, Love, and Pixie Dust

by Gooper



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bittersweet Ending, Character Death, Chronic Illness, Everything is Beautiful and Everything Hurts, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Love, Friends to Lovers, Lung Cancer, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 05:01:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 87,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29803317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gooper/pseuds/Gooper
Summary: George is one who believes in second chances; it's just that he's too far gone to get his. His lungs are practically turning to stone, and without an oxygen tank and a tube in his nose, he may as well be dead on the floor.One fateful night, he meets Dream, a mysterious boy with a strange affinity for nature, whose world is a little more than supernatural. It's magical.(This is a story with VERY long chapters, filled with angst, sadness, and things related to that. tread carefully, but enjoy!!)
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 43
Kudos: 40





	1. Chapter 1

George is one who believes in second chances.

It's just that he's too far gone to get his. Not only that, but the universe seems to hate him so much that he never even got one as an option. 

Still, he's grateful to his parents that they were willing to grant him his wish of attending university, even though there's really no need to go when you're dying.

When the doctors told him his disease was "terminal," they added on saying that it was "treatable" and he could "live with it" if he continued treatment and if the treatment was successful, but both statements contradict the notion of his disease being "terminal," so George didn't really know what to believe. 

With a little more research, he discovered that his condition is considered both "chronic" and "terminal" because it only gets worse over time, more people die from it than not, and he also came to the conclusion that the doctors were a bunch of fucking idiots.

He constantly asked how and why he had this disease, but no one gave him a definitive answer.

The doctors were torn between it being genetic, autoimmune, or just for no apparent reason, like a wild chronic illness just decided to attack his lungs. He was told that his condition was rare for someone his age, but he liked to refer to himself as a "special case" because at least it implied he was special (the doctors didn't appreciate this false-hopeful kind of attitude, but it kept him believing).

The doctors weren't telling him anything, so he just assumes that God or whoever created his body hated him, and decided to fuck over his immune system or maybe poison his lungs when he was in the womb or something. Not his parents though, he loves his parents.

They constantly told him it couldn't be idiopathic because he was so young, and George wanted to tell them that they're a bunch of idio-pathetic idiots for not being able to figure this shit out when it's their job. They kept on saying that it's autoimmune, it has to be autoimmune, but at some point George just gave up on trying to figure it out.

Besides, who has time to question everything when your entire body feels like shit? Certainly not George.

He took whatever medication was given to him, went to any treatments that the doctors suggested, did anything that was supposed to help him live a longer and healthier life with an incurable disease, but even though the disease was centered in his lungs, he felt empty everywhere. If the disease was autoimmune, he hoped that it would just attack the rest of his body so it could be over with.

There are some days where he feels alright, though. If he eats healthy and gets enough sleep and drinks enough water, he can go a day without his body wanting to collapse underneath him. If he can go two days in a row feeling like that, it feels like he can do anything. If he can go three days, he considers it an actual heaven-sent miracle.

Convincing his parents to let him go to university was... difficult, to say the least. George constantly pulled the "I'm dying" card, which is borderline sadistic in his mind, but it worked. George said that he didn't want to spend the rest of his dying life cooped up in his bedroom, watching K-dramas and letting a machine do his breathing for him. He wanted to meet people, study hard, maybe even fall in love during the time he had left. It was hard to argue with that.

So now he stands at the door to his dorm room, with the key to it in one hand and the handle to his oxygen tank in the other.

He'd skipped orientation because being surrounded by that many people playing icebreakers and talking about teamwork and sportsmanship when he literally had to have a machine breathe for him was definitely not appealing. He'd toured the campus already, though his classes and their locations were arranged so that he didn't have to walk as much. He just has to get through the toughest part of arriving at university: meeting his roommate.

Okay, maybe that isn't the toughest part upon arriving to university, but George doesn't do well with social interactions especially when he's hauling around an oxygen tank, so he's pretty sure that's the toughest part for him.

His parents had gone already, moved everything to his room for him while he waited in the car, so his roommate met his parents before he did. They'd said their goodbyes with tears in their eyes, begging George to call them if he ever needed anything, and while George was grateful, he just wanted to get in the room and lie down.

He must've made an amount of noise against the door, because before he even gets a chance to put the key into the lock, the door opens and he's greeted by a tall, brown-haired boy with big eyes and a warm smile.

"You must be George !"

George stands there dumbfounded, thinking about how stupid he must look with a tube in his nose and a huge ass oxygen tank by his side, holding out a key when the door was already unlocked.

"Y-yeah."

George 's roommate steps aside and holds the door open for him, giving him enough space to drag his stupid oxygen tank into the room. "Nice to meet you, George . I'm Sapnap." He reaches out for his hand to shake.

"Ah..." George glances down at it hesitantly.

"Oh shit, um, sorry." Sapnap retracts his hand immediately, opting for scratching at his head awkwardly instead. "I should've, um, yeah. Your parents told me about your condition, but I'm still kinda trying to wrap my head around it, if that makes sense."

"It's fine," George says.

He's quite used to it. He's pretty sure he's experienced all the limitations that come with his disease, from the physical to the social, and this whole awkward not-being-able-to-shake-hands-with-his-roommate-because-he-can't-risk-any-kind-of-infection thing has definitely happened before. While it sucks, it doesn't make him sad or angry or anything. It's just a thing that happens.

He has thick skin; he's handled much worse than an awkward not-handshake.

"So, yeah, um, make yourself at home, I guess. I just gotta unpack a couple more things and then I'll be all set to hang out or chat or whatever you want," Sapnap says.

"Okay." George takes a seat on the twin-sized bed, covered in freshly washed sheets and garnished with an abundance of unnecessary pillows ("We just want you to be comfortable!" his mother insisted). Moving his tank to the side of the bed, he shifts into a lying position and breathes.

"So," Sapnap says as he's transferring clothes over to the drawer, "what's your major?"

Ah, the small talk. George likes small talk, if he's being honest. He's had plenty of it with the nurses and doctors when he'd stayed at the emergency room a multitude of times. It's awkward, but it's a great way to get to know people. George likes getting to know people since he knows he doesn't have a lot of time left to do so. He tries to cherish small moments like those.

"Literature. I like reading and writing and stuff," George says. "Plus, it's a pretty easy major for someone like me. Dying really gives you a lot of insight into things."

"Well, shit," Sapnap half-laugh, half-says. "You're one of the morbid dying people, eh?"

"Yup," George answers dramatically. "Really, feel free to make jokes about my chronic illness. I'm not even being sarcastic. Life's too short, literally, for me to give a shit. If I'm dying, I'd rather have a laugh about it."

Sapnap chuckles. "You're insane, man. I like it."

"That's what chronic illness does to you."

George 's doctors have always suggested going to therapy to "cope." He'd always nod, saying, "I'll consider it," but when the doctors looked away he'd roll his eyes, thinking that going to therapy to cope with dying isn't going to solve shit. He's dying. He's accepted it, and he doesn't need to "cope."

Laughter is his best medicine, besides, well, actual medicine and his oxygen tank. It helps him feel a little better, though he tries not to laugh too hard for obvious reasons. Sometimes it helps him feel like he's not dying, that he's normal and can enjoy life just like any other human being who's not dying can. Perhaps it's why he makes all these cynical, situationally inappropriate jokes that doctors see as concerning rather than lighthearted. George finds all of it amusing.

Chronic illness really does make one insane, George thinks.

"What about you? What's your major?" he asks.

"Sports medicine," Sapnap answers. George snorts with laughter. "Ironic that I end up with a roommate like you, huh?"

"I was thinking the exact same thing," George says.

He has a feeling he'll get along with his roommate just fine if his roommate doesn't mind dry coughing at ungodly hours of the night and having to look after someone who could drop dead at any moment if his body decides it's time to go.

"So, like, you don't have to talk about it, but what kind of stuff do you experience? I want to be able to help you out if you need it," Sapnap says, the mood suddenly turning somber.

George sighs. He knew that this question was going to come up one way or another. He's not one of those sick people who hates it when people try to help him out just because he's sick. If anything, he's kind of grateful for those people. He just doesn't want Sapnap to overdo it and treat him like he's made of glass.

The scar tissue in his lungs definitely proves otherwise.

"My lungs are basically turning to stone, so it's a lot of dry coughing, not being able to breathe, fatigue, aching, that kind of stuff," George explains. "I don't really need 'help' per se, but I just want to warn you, I might wake you up in the middle of the night with my coughing. If you need to leave and sleep somewhere else, I completely understand."

"I understand," Sapnap says. "Well, I don't, since I don't have what you have, but I get what you mean. I know you said you don't really need help, but if you need me to walk you to a class or get something for you, just let me know, okay?"

"Okay."

"Besides, as university students, I feel like neither of us will be getting that much sleep anyway."

George can't agree more.

After Sapnap finishes packing away the rest of his clothes, he plops down on his bed, bouncing slightly. "So, I was going to walk around campus. You're welcome to come with me, but if you're not up for it, that's fine."

Okay, maybe it is a little frustrating when people treat George like he can't do anything. He sits up and swings his legs over the bed, sighing. "Of course I'm up for it, but I won't be able to go very far.

One of the campus's cafés is near here, right? We could go there, have a chat and stuff."

Sapnap smiles, big and bright as he stands up again. "Yeah! Um, do you need help?"

Scoffing, George stands up and grabs the handle of his oxygen tank. "No, but one of the perks of walking around with a guy who has an oxygen tank: you get to take the elevator wherever you go."

Sapnap rolls his eyes.

❀ 

Getting to the café isn't much of a challenge. It's just annoying, especially when a bunch of people passing by all stare at the one guy lugging around an oxygen tank with a tube up his nose. So far, George hasn't seen anybody else like him, apart from someone he saw in an automated wheelchair, but at least that person didn't need a machine to breathe for them. Still, it's nice seeing that he's not the only physically ailed student prowling around.

Waiting in line at the café is a little more frustrating. There's this one guy who tries to step around George 's oxygen tank, obviously attempting to cut in front of him, when Sapnap reaches out to grab the guys arm and tells him to fuck off (well, politely). The guy scowls at the both of them but does so anyway, returning to the back of the line.

"Sheesh, shouldn't people have a decent sense of common courtesy by now?" Sapnap mutters to himself.

The barista is a tall, lanky kid by the name of Techno, who greets George and Sapnap with a jolly, crooked smile. His eyes disappear with his smile, and George thinks it's kind of cute. "What can I get for you today?" he chirps cheerfully.

George orders a yogurt smoothie since his mother forbids him from drinking coffee for his health, though he doesn't see the harm in it. He asks Sapnap to order one so he can take a few sips, to which Sapnap obliges, winking at him before he orders a large caramel iced coffee.

"So," Sapnap says as the two sit down at a table near the windows, "what's your condition called?"

"Pulmonary fibrosis," George says, sipping his smoothie. "It's where your lungs constantly scar over."

"Do you know what caused it?"

George shrugs. "Don't know, and the doctors never really gave me a definitive answer. Apparently there are a lot of environmental factors that go into it, but I've never been exposed to harsh chemicals or asbestos or anything like that. And like, I've never had any sort of other disease like pneumonia that could've caused it. So yeah, I don't know."

"Could it be an autoimmune issue?" Right, Sapnap is a sports medicine major. He's bound to know a thing or two about diseases.

"Maybe," George says. "But even so, they haven't really given me a diagnosis other than the pulmonary fibrosis, so that's all I have to go off of."

"That's bullshit," Sapnap says as he rolls his eyes. "But if there really is no definitive cause, maybe it is idiopathic."

"They're just confused as to why it would be since I'm so young and haven't had any sort of risk factors. From what my parents know, it's not genetic. I was a healthy child for the most part. It's just like my lungs just decided to fuck me over out of nowhere."

"That really sucks, man. I'm sorry." Sapnap smiles sympathetically, offering a sip of his coffee to him, which he gladly takes.

"It's whatever, honestly. I could get a lung transplant or something, but I've accepted my fate at this point."

That makes Sapnap frown around his straw, his brows furrowing together. "Come on, man. If getting a lung transplant could save your life, I'd get one."

"Pretty sure all the treatments I get nowadays are enough on my parents' wallets."

"But if you get the transplant, then you wouldn't have to get any more treatments, right?"

George shrugs. "There's no guarantee. For all I know, my body could completely reject a new pair of lungs. Plus, I'd definitely be put on a waiting list, and that would probably take a while."

Sapnap sighs, face deflating in defeat. "Well, it's your decision, I guess."

"Trust me, we've discussed all sorts of options. The doctors don't really like my morbidly cynical way of thinking when it comes to my condition, but it gets me by and gives me a good laugh sometimes. I promise you, you can make all the jokes about my illness and I will not give a shit," George says with a laugh, followed by a tiny cough.

"I'll keep that in mind, but if someone calls you a cripple or whatever, they're getting their ass whooped," Sapnap says firmly.

Through the small talk, George learns the most basic things about Sapnap, from his birthday (March twenty-third) to his hobbies (dancing, watching animal videos on the Internet, and playing basketball), and George can't help but feel a bit inferior. Sapnap speaks loud and proud about his interests, about himself, and George understands why. Sapnap is somebody. He makes his life worth it, and he can, because he has all the time in the world. George can't say the same about himself, as he's spent the majority of his life in the hospital being treated or checked up on and at home in his room, eyes glued to his laptop screen as he did his online coursework. His life is so, so boring.

And when Sapnap asks about him, he just shrugs. "I'm not that interesting. I have sucky lungs and that's about the most interesting thing about me."

"You definitely don't seem boring, that's for sure," Sapnap says. "Tell me more about your condition, though, if that's what makes you interesting. If you're comfortable talking about it, that is."

"Yeah, I'm fine with talking about it. What do you want to know exactly?"

"Hm... well, what were your treatments like?"

George clears his throat, sipping his smoothie to soothe the slight irritation. "A lot of routine check ups. Medication. I've taken so many pills I think my body is practically made up of chemicals at this point." Sapnap laughs at that. "Oxygen therapy, which is like, what I've got going on right now." George points at his oxygen tank and the cannula in his nose. "And breathing exercises. All of this is supposed to slow the progression of the scarring or make the disease more bearable."

"Is it doing that?" Sapnap asks.

"Yeah, for the most part," George says. "It's been a while since I've had a bad episode."

"Mind if I ask what happened?"

"I couldn't stop coughing, started coughing up blood, and I'm pretty sure I passed out. Don't remember much from that besides waking up and feeling like I just came back from the dead. Who knows, I might have actually. I don't know."

"Well, shit, how long ago was that?" Sapnap asks.

"Several months ago," George says. "I was feeling better within two weeks. Haven't had any complications since then."

"That's good, at least. Hopefully that doesn't happen again. I don't want my roommate dying on me;

I've come to like you quite a bit," Sapnap says with a bright smile.

George decides he likes Sapnap. He'll just feel bad if Sapnap loses sleep over him. He's pretty sure he's kept his own parents up with his coughing before (actually, he's very sure he has). But he has to remind himself, they're his parents. This is Sapnap, someone George has only just met but already likes. Being shut away at home meant George didn't get many opportunities to make friends, and now that he's in a completely different environment with all sorts of opportunities like that and more, he's ready to take advantage of all of it. He just hopes he doesn't scare away his roommate (and hopefully soon to be friend) in the process.

But then again, what does a dying man have to lose?

❀ 

At the very core of the university is a bountiful courtyard, adorned by an enormous fountain and an abundance of healthy, vibrant plant life. The red brick walkways from all directions lead straight to the fountain, a two-tier stone statue that spouts water from both tiers. Several students sit along the rim of it, taking pictures and chatting amongst themselves. Some sit on the benches near the plant life. Most just walk by, but stop occasionally to take pictures of the scenery.

George does it too. The fountain is beautiful. He hasn't seen anything like it in real life.

"Isn't this place amazing? When I came here for orientation, I never wanted to leave this very spot," Sapnap says, coming to a halt in front of the fountain.

"I didn't go to orientation. Didn't really think it was worth it," George says, eyes glancing down at his tank pitifully.

"Ah, I get that." Sapnap sighs and stares up at the fountain, which is several centimetres taller than himself. "Do you mind taking a picture of me?"

"Not at all." Sapnap hands George his phone and stands up on the rim of the fountain, balancing on one leg as he extends the other out behind him, spreading his arms out, one in front and one in back of him. George swears it's a yoga pose of some sort as he chuckles and takes the picture. "Nice, dude."

Laughing, Sapnap hops down from the fountain and checks the photo. "Golden."

That's one word George would use to describe the scene. It's absolutely breathtaking (pun intended), and George is glad that he managed to convince his parents to let him come here. If he's going to die sooner than most, he'd rather have it be after seeing such beautiful things. He may not be able to travel the world with the time he has left, but he's perfectly content with seeing at least a fraction of it, here, in the courtyard of this university, in the form of a marvelous fountain and magnificent garden.

❀ 

George knows he shouldn't be pushing himself, but it's his first day at university and he wants to do fun stuff. He doesn't want to be tucked in bed at nine o'clock; he wants to be out at the student union and eating and meeting new people. The union is a bit of a walk from their dorm, but Sapnap is perfectly willing to accompany him there and offers to help him out if he needs it. He also promises George that he will have emergency services on speed dial in case his body decides to fuck him over at some random point in time. George laughs at that, and coughs.

The student union is crowded with new students and booths filled with freebies and sign-ups. George and Sapnap browse the booths, though George knows he probably won't be joining any clubs since that involves more walking and time out of his day. Sapnap definitely takes an interest in one of the dance crews on campus and signs up for an audition.

"I want to see you dance someday," George tells him as they walk away from the booth.

"You probably will. I always dance if I'm listening to music. And not to toot my own horn or anything, but I'm a pretty good dancer," Sapnap says.

George wishes he could say the same, but he can't really do anything physical.

Among the sea of students, it's hard to stay focused. It's a little too cramped for George's liking, and as they approach the food court, he tugs at Sapnap's sleeve and asks to sit down. Sapnap looks at him worriedly. "Are you okay?" he asks.

"Yeah, just, not used to standing and walking for this long. And it's really crowded here," George says, his chest already beginning to tighten. "I just need to sit down for a while."

"Yeah, that's totally fine! Do you need me to help you?"

Again with the help. George shakes his head defiantly. "No, we're literally two feet away from the tables."

"Oh, right. Sorry," Sapnap says, cringing visibly as they take their seats. "I didn't mean to, like, seem insensitive or anything like that."

George sighs and rests his elbow on the table, slotting his chin into his hand. "You weren't. I just, like, don't need help all the time. I guess I don't like being treated like I'm made of glass. My parents always spoiled the shit out of me and were always super protective, and for once, I can get away from all of that."

Sapnap presses his lips together and nods. "I get it. I'm sorry about that."

"It's fine. I know you were just trying to help."

Sapnap nods, though he still looks a bit uncomfortable. The two look around the large dining area, and George catches plenty of people looking at him before they hastily turn their heads. It's to be expected, honestly. But at least they look away. It must be an intriguing sight. It's not every day people see a college student carrying around an oxygen tank with tubes up his nostrils. George is the anomaly now. All eyes are on him (well, for a few seconds).

"So, uh, I should've told you this earlier, but I'm going to a party tonight. One of my old friends from high school is an upperclassman and he invited me to one. I don't... know if you'd wanna go."

George is already shaking his head. "Can't and don't want to go for obvious reasons," he says, chuckling.

"Yeah, I figured. Just thought I would ask. Are you just gonna hang out in the dorm while I'm out?"

"Yeah, most likely."

"Alright, well, if you need anything... oh, shit! We forgot to exchange numbers."

And after the exchanging of numbers, Sapnap gets up to grab some food while George leans back in his chair, continuing to scout out the area, watching as heads turn away from looking at him and his stupid oxygen tank. It's disheartening, definitely, but he's sure they'll grow used to seeing the guy with crappy lungs who walks around carrying way too much baggage for someone with said crappy lungs. He's sure he'll grow used to this new environment, hopefully, as long as his oxygen tank continues to function correctly.

Sapnap offers George some of his salad, which he graciously accepts, but George thinks to himself, is this what's going to keep happening? Mooching off of his roommate, always needing help but not wanting to ask for it? George has always been told that it's okay to ask for help when he needs it. But he doesn't want to hold Sapnap back, doesn't want to keep Sapnap up at late hours of the night with his dry coughing and wheezing, and certainly doesn't want to be more of a burden than his oxygen tank already is.

Sapnap seems like a generous person. Even though it's just food, generosity tends to present itself in multiple ways. George has noticed this, from the doctors to his parents, always willing to lend him a helping hand no matter what, but George knows that if it weren't for his stupid illness, they wouldn't treat him that way. They'd treat him like someone who isn't sick and helpless. They wouldn't be at his side all the time, always checking up on him. He wonders if he weren't sick, if he would feel freer, not chained up by the symptoms of his disease and the people around him constantly shoving their pitiful affection down his throat. He would be able to party with Sapnap, he'd be able to walk around freely without having to worry about collapsing, and he could live the life of a typical college student.

Unfortunately, that's not his reality. He accepts it, sure, but the tube up his nose and the puzzled stares from strangers make it more and more difficult to bear.

If Sapnap decides to move out, he'll wholeheartedly understand why. But for now, taking small bites of Sapnap's salad and smiling and laughing with him are the moments he'll have to cherish, because he's pretty damn sure it's not going to last.

❀ 

George ends up heading back to the dorm early despite Sapnap's adamant protests, to which George tells him that he wants Sapnap to explore the entirety of the campus without having a dude who can't breathe properly weigh him down. Sapnap looks at him with puppy-like eyes that almost seem to shimmer, but George just sighs, shakes his head, and tells him to go. Reluctantly, Sapnap obliges, but tells George that he probably won't be back until after the party. And yeah, George is fine with that. He's not Sapnap's parent. He doesn't have any control over what Sapnap does, and the last thing he wants is for Sapnap to feel like he has to watch over him because he's sick. He doesn't need help.

He takes the elevator back up to their dorm room, receiving a few glances from some of the people on their floor. He simply bows his head and walks straight past them, knowing that he'll probably never learn their names anyway, unlocks the room, and lets out a deep breath. He looks down at his tank and has the overwhelming urge to kick it, but, knowing that it wouldn't result in anything good, he settles for scowling at it.

"Why do you have to make things so difficult?" he huffs at nobody and nothing in particular. He could be talking to his tank. He could be talking to himself, or his illness, or God, for that matter.

Whatever decided to fuck him over in the end and give him a shitty body and a shitty pair of lungs and a roommate and family that are too good for him. He's not worth all the worry, all the pity. If it weren't for his stupid illness.

Unsurprisingly, George receives a phone call from his mother that evening. Most of her worries are about what he ate, if his tank is functioning correctly. She tells him that she's already scheduled appointments with the clinic nearby for routine checkups (and okay, he's grateful for that because he's pretty sure he would have absolutely no idea what to do or where to go for his checkups and he kind of needs those). 

She rambles on like she normally does, telling George to take his medication, eat and drink regularly, don't go anywhere unless he has to, to which he responds with a simple hum and nod of the head that she can't even see, but she doesn't stop talking until she's run through everything. George can probably recite all the things his mother tells him on a constant basis and create an extensive list of them.

"Please take care of yourself, George, and make sure to call us if you ever need anything, okay?"

she asks, her voice filled with a typical mother's worry.

"I will," George says, though he means it halfheartedly.

He's the one to hang up, because he knows his mother won't. Part of him feels bad. The other part is just glad she can't hear him now because he sighs, falls back on his bed, and coughs.

He coughs a lot, actually.

The coughing fits aren't bad, usually. They sound concerning, as they're heavy and loud, and there's always a weird taste in the back of his throat after he coughs. But they calm down after a few seconds, and as long as there isn't actual blood, everything is fine. He'll take a few deep breaths, or try to, swallow hard, and close his eyes. He's tired.

The sun is low in the sky when he drifts off to sleep to the sound of the dorm room's radiator and his patchy breathing.

❀ 

George is hungry when he wakes up. He should've eaten more than just a few bites of Sapnap's salad.

And now, he needs food, as his mother's voice screams at him in his head because that's all he ever hears.

He ends up traveling to the same café again, alone this time, because he actually quite liked their yogurt smoothie, and though he's hungry, he knows he probably won't be able to eat an entire meal despite his mother's pleas. He'll settle for a bagel or something.

It's dark out, and the café is practically empty apart from three students on their laptops and the staff. When George walks in, he recognizes the barista from earlier, removing his apron as he walks into the back room. George approaches the counter and frowns when he sees no one else there, but the barista is quick to turn on his heels and head back to the counter.

"Hello—oh wait! I remember you from earlier!" the barista, who George believes is named Techno, says.

"Yeah, I was here earlier with my roommate," George says. "It's not hard to recognize me. I'm hauling around this oxygen tank for fuck's sake."

George can tell Techno tries to hold back a laugh. "O-oh. Anyway, sorry that I almost left you there. My shift is literally about to end and one of my coworkers is grabbing stock and I don't know where the other one went..."

"It's okay," George tells him. "I just want another blueberry yogurt smoothie. Do you have any blueberry bagels?"

"You like blueberries?" Techno asks, his lips curved into a smile, his eyes disappearing with it.

"Is it hard to tell?" George asks back, returning a smile.

Techno just laughs and rings him out. "What's your name?" he asks.

"George. George NotFound."

"Ah, like a mountain!"

"Yeah. A crappy mountain at that," George scoffs as he watches Techno get started on his order. "A mountain that can't really stand without an oxygen tank."

"Nothing wrong with a little support," Techno says with a shrug. He slices George's bagel in half and tosses it into the conveyor belt toaster oven.

There's nothing wrong with needing help.

"Are you new here?"

"Yeah, just moved in today. I'm a first-year," George says.

"Ah. I'm a second-year," Techno says, switching the blender on. "Got a job here last year, haven't left since. What's your major?"

"Literature," George shouts over the noise of the blender. "I like reading. Not being able to breathe or do much of anything gives me a lot of time to do so."

Techno's laugh is inaudible, but his shoulders shake with it. "Damn, George, you really know how to crack a lot of self-deprecating jokes about your ailment."

George just shrugs as Techno switches the blender off and starts pouring his smoothie into a cup. "It keeps me sane. No sense in not having fun with your terminal illness when life is literally too short.

Figured I'll at least make myself and others laugh about it."

Techno doesn't laugh at that. "Terminal?" He frowns, handing over George's smoothie.

"I mean, we all die eventually. Life itself is terminal. My illness is just gonna kill me sooner than most," George says, taking a sip.

"You're so nonchalant about it," Techno says. "Not to mention I'm basically a complete stranger."

George shrugs again. "I guess you don't have much to lose when you're dying."

"Wow," Techno says. "I, uh, don't really know what to say to that."

"Sorry if that was a little strong," George apologizes. "I know that my jokes can be a bit much for people, but I guess it's how I cope. I'm perfectly fine with talking about my impending death and the illness that will undeniably cause it, but I understand it's not an easy topic for others to talk about. Also, I just realized that I made another cynical comment about my illness. They tend to just slip out. I'm sorry again."

Techno cracks a small smile. "It's okay. I've just never really met someone with... a terminal illness."

He hands George's bagel over in a small basket.

"Strawberry cream cheese if you have it, please. Sorry, I forgot to mention that part," George says.

"I gotcha, don't worry." Techno hands him two packs of the cream cheese and taps away at the register. "What are you doing after this?"

"Nothing, probably. I just wanted some food and I liked the smoothie earlier. Figured I'd come back, since it's not a far walk from the dorm and I probably couldn't eat a full meal. My roommate's going to a party, so I'm on my own for the night."

"Ah, well, after you pay, my shift ends. Would you like some company?" Techno asks as George hands him his card.

"Really?"

"Yeah. I'd love to get to know you and your terminal illness," the barista says mischievously, as if he's just now caught onto George's sarcastic cynicism.

And who is George to turn down the opportunity to make a friend?

Over a yogurt smoothie and a blueberry bagel with strawberry cream cheese, George learns about Song Techno, a second-year majoring in dance, who is actually a member of the dance crew that Sapnap had signed up for. Techno immediately perks up at the mention of it. "Really? That's such a coincidence! He's the one you were with earlier?"

"Yeah."

"I swear, we're really good, but not a lot of people come to this university to dance. We're a small group," Techno says defeatedly. "But! Since we're a small group, we're really close-knit. They're like my best friends. I'm looking forward to getting to know your roommate. What's his name again?"

"Sapnap. Sapnap Armstrong."

"Ah. Yeah, I remember what he looks like! He's like, as tall as me! I don't see that many people my height," Techno says, sitting up straighter as if to prove something.

George snorts. "What? I'm tall and I can dance. That's not a lot of people on campus, you know. I'd say I'm quite the minority, yet very unique and talented," Techno says proudly.

"And arrogant, too."

"Confidence and arrogance are two different things, George," Techno says mockingly, partially sticking his tongue out. "I'm just stating facts. I'm tall, I can dance. Not a lot of people on campus are tall, and there are barely any dance majors or people on the dance crew. Therefore, I am the minority, and please forgive me for thinking that I'm unique and talented.

What am I supposed to say, that I suck? If we're going by the 'life is too short' motto, then I will say that life is too short for modesty. If you believe in your talents and abilities, say it loud and proud!"

George raises an eyebrow at the beaming barista, who's smiling wide, all crooked teeth and eyes that practically close when he does. "Whatever gets you by, Techno."

Techno bursts out laughing. "It does, honestly. Just like making self-deprecating jokes gets you by, boosting myself up and praising the things I do gets me by. Keeps me sane, you know?"

George nods, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Yup. I really do."

Techno's smile fades into one of sympathy rather than triumph. "I'm sorry, George. I'll stop talking about myself."

"It's okay."

"So anyway, I told you that I'd love to get to know you and your terminal illness. Care to tell me about it?"

George gives him a rundown of his illness and a paraphrased version of his life story. Pulmonary fibrosis, possibly idiopathic or autoimmune (and unlike with Sapnap, George has to explain what these things mean). How the oxygen tank makes breathing a little easier. How his life consists of routine checkups and medication and a (mostly) balanced diet and water. How his mother constantly bugs him about everything he's listed and how he wishes God hadn't fucked his body up.

"So... it really is terminal?" Techno asks after everything, his voice small.

"Chronic, terminal, whatever. It's gonna kill me one day," George says. "There's no cure, and while there are things that can be done to slow the progression of the disease, the damage done to my lungs is irreversible. If something bad happens, like if I inhale some bad shit or get an infection, there's no going back."

Techno sucks in his bottom lip. "Better stay away from all the smokers. Some people smoke on campus. Maybe it's best to stay inside when you can?"

"I guess."

"I'm surprised your parents let you come here. Your mom sounds uptight about all of this," Techno notes.

"She is. It definitely took a lot of persuasion, but it's hard to argue with the 'I'm dying' card," George says with a sly smile.

"It must have been tough for her, though," Techno says, suddenly serious. "Like... making that decision. University isn't exactly the safest place. People smoke, party and whatnot. There are a lot of ways you could get sick, always being surrounded by so many people. Not to mention it's a big campus and you have to walk everywhere."

"Believe it or not, light exercise is encouraged," George says. "My mother just likes to keep me inside for the other reasons. Doesn't want me inhaling anything bad or risk getting sick with something that could worsen the disease. But, like, I don't know. I just don't want to spend the rest of my already shortened life cooped up in my room."

"I can understand where you're coming from," Techno acknowledges, nodding thoughtfully.

"The school is willing to give me the necessary accommodations. Like, if I can't go to class one day because I'm too sick or something, or if I miss anything, my professors are going to work with me online."

"That's good."

As good as things can get, George thinks.

George eventually gets Techno's number before Techno has to leave (being a barista is hard work and is very tiring, according to Techno, and George believes him completely). Much like Sapnap and his parents, Techno tells George to call him if he needs anything. George smiles through the urge to cringe and thanks him, feeling both ecstatic that he made a friend and disappointed that it's another person in his life who will take pity on him.

Whatever. This is the life he's been given; he might as well just roll with it.

By now, the campus walkways are basically empty, to George's surprise. He'd expect more people to be walking around on the weekend nights before classes officially start, but he figures that maybe everyone is already partying. He sighs and walks in the direction of the campus's center, the brick walkways now illuminated by street lamps.

There are small spotlights at the base of the fountain that now highlight parts of the stone structure in a way that is almost hauntingly beautiful. George wonders if they keep the lights on all night. They are better. Such a magnificent structure deserves to be highlighted like that.

George sits at one of the benches that faces the fountain and gazes up at it. The soothing sound of running water and the gentle summer breeze aids in quelling his aching lungs as he breathes in and out deeply, focusing on the air that's being pumped into his lungs. He's lightheaded.

He closes his eyes. He inhales through his nose and exhales through his mouth.

Breathe. Just breathe.

If only it were that simple.

"Shit," George sighs, his shoulders slumping and head falling back. His eyes remain closed.

On the plus side, he's managed to make two friends on his first day. Well, people he could befriend. He likes them well enough. He imagines they must like him too, if they weren't scared away by his dark humor and cynical jokes about his own illness that will very well kill him one of these days. He wonders if he jokes like this to cope, or if he jokes like this because maybe it'll be easier to handle when his lungs finally decide to give up on him.

If he makes all of these jokes and downplays the severity of his illness, would people remember him in such a lighthearted manner, or would it not matter at all? Sapnap and Techno had laughed at a few of his self-inflicted jabs. Wouldn't that make his death easier on them?

He doesn't really know if it makes sense in his own head. He's trying to make it make sense.

He imagines death, for the dead or for the living, isn't easy no matter what. When his time comes, where he feels it in his bones that his body is going to finally give out, he's not sure if he will be able to keep up the sarcasm or the witty cynicism. He feels like he'd be too tired for that. Hell, he's too tired now, sitting on a bench in front of the school's gigantic fountain. If he meets another person, he's not sure if he'll be able to crack the same jokes.

He's just tired. He wants to be able to breathe properly.

When he finally opens his eyes and straightens out his head, he sees a figure in his left peripheral, about two meters away. It's leaning over one of the walls, cradling one of the many flowers planted on the sides of the walkways with both of its hands. A boy, George thinks.

And he's smiling.

George squints, attempting to acquire a better view of this person's face, when his smile suddenly disappears and his head turns towards George's. He tilts his head curiously. Startled, George opens his mouth as if to speak, but nothing comes out.

It's a very, very strange experience. Where normally, in an instance like this, George feels like the breath would be knocked out of him.

But now, in this moment, seeing this stranger holding the head of a flower delicately in his hands, looking at him curiously...

Instead, George feels like a breath of the freshest air has invaded his lungs, and it's almost overwhelming. It has never been this easy to breathe.

"H-hi," he manages.

The stranger's smile returns, aimed at George instead of the flower. George takes another breath.

"Hi," the stranger responds, releasing the flower and standing to his feet. He's dressed in a simply purple hoodie and sweatpants, but George swears he's never seen someone so... ethereal. As he approaches, George breathes.

It's too easy to breathe. This isn't right.

"What's your name?" the stranger asks, now standing in front of him, blocking the fountain.

George would much rather stare at this beautiful stranger than the fountain, now.

"George. George NotFound."

The stranger beams at him and giggles, and George takes the easiest breath he's ever felt. It's as if the air around him is clean, like his lungs are lungs again. A gentle breeze floats by. The sound of trickling water streams through his eardrums. The stranger somehow grins even wider than before.

"Dream. Dream WasTaken." The mysterious stranger, Dream, holds out his hand. "It's nice to meet you, George."

Hesitantly, George reaches up and shakes the stranger's hand, forgetting about the whole "don't touch other people's hands unless they're clean" thing, because Dream, one of the most beautiful people George swears he has ever seen in his life, is holding out his hand for him to shake. When their hands touch, George thinks he sees white for a split second.

He breathes. He can breathe.

Dream shakes his hand tenderly, like it could break, but George feels indestructible. He can breathe.

"It's a nice night, isn't it?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George is one who believes in second chances; it's just that he's too far gone to get his. His lungs are practically turning to stone, and without an oxygen tank and a tube in his nose, he may as well be dead on the floor.
> 
> One fateful night, he meets Dream, a mysterious boy with a strange affinity for nature, whose world is a little more than supernatural. It's magical.
> 
> (This is a story with VERY long chapters, filled with angst, sadness, and things related to that. tread carefully, but enjoy!!)

It's a surreal experience, not being able to breathe properly for so long and then all of a sudden getting knocked in the lungs with puffs of fresh, rejuvenating air. To George, it almost hurts. It hurts so good.

"Y-yeah," George practically gasps, in awe both at his newfound ability to breathe and the gorgeous human being standing right in front of him.

When Dream retracts his hand, George breathes again. "You seem a bit lonely. Mind if I join you?" Dream asks, though he's already sliding into the spot next to George. "Oops, already did."

George giggles, giggles, and Dream's face lights up instantly. George is pretty sure he hasn't looked away from Dream once. He's absolutely infatuating.

"I, um... sorry," George says.

Dream's nose scrunches up. "Why are you sorry?"

"I... don't know." George chuckles awkwardly, his eyes finally looking away out of sheer embarrassment. He can't help it. Though he can breathe, his entire body is jittery with nerves. "I'm just not good with meeting new people, I guess."

"That's okay," Dream says. "It's not easy, especially being a new student and all. At least, I assume you're a new student."

"Yeah, I'm a first-year. And I was homeschooled my entire life, so this is definitely a change of pace," George says, glancing down hopelessly at his oxygen tank. Dream's eyes follow his, and he tilts his head curiously. It's undeniably cute, George thinks.

"I'm the same way, though! First-year, homeschooled my whole life," Dream announces with what seems like pride, though George doesn't exactly understand how anybody could be proud of that.

Still, it gives him a tiny sense of relief, knowing that Dream is in the same boat as him.

When George looks up back at Dream, he's already staring back at him, that same wondrous smile on his face. George can't help but smile back. "What are your parents like?" Dream asks suddenly.

The question takes George aback. "Oh, um... they're really great. They care a lot for me, with me being, uh, sick and all."

Dream nods considerately, humming in acknowledgment. "That's good!"

"What about yours?"

"Oh, uh," Dream says awkwardly, his nose scrunching up again. It's an adorable habit, it seems. "They're not really my 'parents.' They're... more like my guardians. I don't know who my real parents are."

"So you're adopted, then?" George asks.

"Kinda?" Dream says, formed as more of a question. "This is gonna sound real weird, but I wasn't officially 'adopted.' I was just kinda, uh, found by these people. Randomly, in the middle of the night. In a basket by a train station."

George quirks an eyebrow, his jaw dropping slightly at the outrageous story. "A... basket?"

Dream's entire face scrunches up this time as he shrugs, practically with his whole body.

It's too adorable, George notes. "I honestly don't know. But, I was still able to get citizenship, even though I wasn't recognized as their child, since, uh, they're not... a 'couple.'" Dream hushes his voice at that last part as he leans in. "They're not married or anything, 'cause it's not legal in this country yet."

George's mouth forms an 'o' when he realizes what Dream means. "It's hard to explain their relationship," Dream continues, returning his voice to a normal volume. "When you see them, they look like best friends. Which, they are. But like, they also raised me, so when people see them, they think of me as their kid and think of them as my parents... which they aren't."

"I'm gonna admit, I'm pretty confused by all of that," George says.

"They're best friends who lived together for a long time, who stumbled upon a child in a basket and decided to raise it. So they're not technically parents. That's why I call them my guardians rather than my parents. They're not a couple," Dream says, though he winks not-so-subtly.

George nods slowly, attempting to appear as if he comprehends what Dream is telling him, though he really can't wrap his head around it. He figures it's not that big of a deal though. Whoever raised such an ethereal being deserves all the respect in the world, George thinks. Even if it was two males.

"We got a lot of weird looks from people," Dream says. "Seeing two guys about the same age walking around with a kid, I mean, it's hard not to think of something strange. But it's okay. At least I didn't go to public school. I feel like that would've been hell."

George winces internally, nodding in agreement. "So, uh... a basket."

Dream chuckles. "Yup. That's what they told me. At least whoever abandoned me had the courtesy to make it comfortable and actually kinda fancy. I mean, it's something straight out of a movie. If they'd left me floating down a river, that's even more like a movie."

"You sure they didn't just adopt you in secret?" George questions.

Dream shrugs again. "What does it matter? They raised me. I'm alive. The small details don't bother me. I wouldn't even make an effort to find out who my real parents are, if I'm being honest."

He leans back on the bench, sighing as he tucks his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. "So, what do you like to do? Hobbies and such, I mean."

Here comes the small talk. George figures he should have expected it, especially entering a new place where he could make friends. It always starts with small talk, doesn't it? At least Dream didn't ask about his oxygen tank first thing. That's not exactly small talk.

"I don't really have many hobbies," George says. "I like reading and writing sometimes. I watch a lot of dramas. There's, uh, not much I can do since I'm not exactly physically capable."

Dream looks at his tank again and pouts, and all George can think is how can this guy be so unintentionally cute? "Do you like to explore?" he asks.

"I can't really, because—" 

"Yes or no, George," Dream interrupts, his tone firm yet facial expression soft.

"Um... yes."

When George thinks about it, he really does like to explore, when or if he can. He likes to see new places and the beauty in them; hell, he'd been mesmerized by a fucking fountain. Of course he likes to explore, and he would do much more exploration if it weren't for his tank weighing him down.

"I do like exploring," George continues, though with each word, he finds himself shrinking. "I just wish I could do it more, you know? I can't really walk that far without my lungs wanting to collapse, and I don't travel because it's too risky. Coming to university was a huge risk in and of itself, honestly. But I figured I might as well explore a little bit before I die."

Dream frowns at George's cynical remark, unlike Sapnap and Techno. His frown comes with a pout, one that makes George feel sort of guilty for dumping another dark humorous joke on him. "I guess that's a good risk to take, but don't think of it like that."

"Like what?"

"That you're going to die."

"Well, I am," George says matter-of-factly. "This disease is slowly killing me, and there's no cure or way to reverse the damage that's done to my lungs. I'm not going to live as long as the average human does, and I've accepted it."

Dream half-sighs half-whines and crosses his arms. How is everything he does so adorable? 

"You might be right, but why do you have to think of everything so negatively?" He even says things in pout. Lord help him.

"It gets me by," George says.

"Hmph."

With small talk comes interims of awkward silence, George has learned, but he usually takes these moments to catch his breath. However, given the fact that he's actually breathing with ease now, the silence is a lot more painfully awkward than he's used to. Dream is the first person he's met (besides his doctors and parents) who hasn't liked his cynical jokes. It's definitely something George isn't used to.

While he doesn't want to scare Dream off, he'll understand if he does. Besides, life is too short for him to be hung up on someone who's basically still a stranger.

(George definitely doesn't want him to remain a stranger for long, though.) "Well, would it be such a bad thing if I asked you to go exploring sometime?" Dream asks out of nowhere, and George can't help his eyes from widening.

"Wait, what?"

"I asked you if you wanted to go exploring sometime," Dream repeats, chuckling.

"W-where, exactly?"

Dream grins as he shrugs, eyes glistening with impishness, and says, "What's the point of exploring if you know where you're going?"

George is left speechless, but at least he can breathe.

The goodbye is as awkward as any goodbyes between two newly acquainted strangers are, but there's a lingering feeling in George's stomach as he walks away from the boy. His phone is heavy in his pocket with Dream's number now stored in it.

George is halfway back to the dorm when the breathing returns to normal.

The same heavy, yet not painful breathing that his oxygen tank offers. The same difficult breathing that makes his chest hurt, though it's not intolerable. How he's used to breathing. It's not refreshing anymore. It's not the way he breathed when Dream was there.

When he finally gets back to his room, he inhales deeply through the tube, and exhales through his mouth. He coughs.

And coughs.

He coughs as he drags his tank along with him to the side of his bed before collapsing onto it. He grips the edge of the bed as the coughs seize his body and wrack his lungs. There's a fire burning in the back of his throat, his chest, everywhere. He coughs until he feels numbly lightheaded and there's the weird metallic taste in the back of his mouth. His entire chest feels like it's been crushed, but it's nothing new.

No, George has had it much worse. This is normal.

When he finally manages to sit up and breathe properly (well, as properly as he can), he sighs in frustration.

He still has to get ready for bed.

❀ 

When George wakes up, Sapnap isn't there. He figures he must have crashed at the party, or had gone home with somebody (which, good for him). The sun is low in the sky, he notices, and when he checks his phone, it's only seven in the morning.

It's still the weekend. Classes don't start for another two days. What else is he supposed to do?

It's seven in the morning. There's no way Techno or Dream would be up, he thinks. He figures he shouldn't even bother with them, but he does send Sapnap a text asking him if he's alright and when he'll be back. It reminds him a lot of his own mother; maybe she's rubbed off on him.

He's pleasantly surprised that he didn't have a surprise coughing attack while he was sleeping. He just hopes that when Sapnap is actually here with him, he won't wake either of them up with his coughing.

As George is getting dressed for the day (curse having a tube up his nose; it makes things so much more difficult), he receives a text who he thinks is Sapnap at first, but when he checks the contact, it's actually Dream.

[Dream]

George! u up for some exploring today?

[George] 

right now?

[Dream]

if u want! i'm already ready for the day. might go to the cafe, u know the one closest to the fountain?

[George] 

oh yeah, that's the one near my dorm. i went there twice yesterday lol 

[Dream] 

perfect! see u there :) 

George smiles at the texts, not even caring that Dream didn't actually ask him to meet him there, nor did he agree to, but he would have said yes anyway. He's actually quite surprised that Dream is up this early. He wonders if Techno is too. He briefly considers leaving Sapnap a note telling him he went out, but frowns at himself when he realizes he has a cell phone and can just text him that.

George sometimes doesn't understand why he thinks things.

Sure enough, the streets and walkways are practically deserted, but in a way, it makes the campus much more attractive, when there are no human bodies in the way of its beauty. There's a lot more plant life that George had noticed before, towering trees and bushels of flowers of all sorts of colors lining the sidewalks. 

The intense morning sunlight only adds to the natural beauty, illuminating all of the colors that paint the campus and make it something that George is glad he got to see.

If this is all the exploring he's capable of doing in his lifetime, he'll definitely take it.

The café isn't busy, but there are more customers than George thought there would be. He doesn't see Techno behind the counter, but he does see a very familiar, gorgeous human being standing off to the right near the stools by the window.

"Ohh, George!" Dream calls out, bounding over to George's side. "Glad you made it! I haven't actually been here before. You really came here twice yesterday?"

"Yeah, I went with my roommate during the day and by myself later that night," George says. "He was at a party, and I got bored at the dorm so I came out here since this is the only place close enough to the dorm where I can get stuff to eat."

"Does your dorm not have a dining hall?"

"What?"

Dream bursts out laughing, some sort of hyena-sounding laugh that is both annoying and incredibly endearing. "George, really? Your dorm doesn't have a dining hall? You know, where you can get stuff to eat?"

"I... don't know," George says, slightly embarrassed. "I didn't really explore that much yesterday. I mean, I came here, went to the student union to check out some clubs with my roommate, and then went back to the dorm. No one told me dorms had dining halls."

"Well, they do," Dream laughs. "I knew that, and I don't even live in a dorm."

They start migrating towards the front counter behind two other customers, George's oxygen tank trailing behind them. "Where do you live?" George asks.

"With my guardians. They live in a house that's so close to campus that it might as well be on campus," Dream says. "It's actually quite convenient. I'm able to walk everywhere with no problem and I don't have to pay for housing."

George scoffs. "Lucky you."

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" Dream says suddenly, frowning deeply. "I really didn't mean to, like, upset you or seem insensitive or anything like that—" 

"Dream, it's okay," George reassures him with a smile. "Don't worry about it. So, what do you want?"

Dream looks up at the menu boards with his lips pursed in thought, and George can't help but admire him covertly. He tilts his head up as he pretends to read the menu, when his eyes are placed in a much different direction. 

He's even more beautiful up close and under lighting that isn't just street lamps. His jawline is so sharp that it could probably cut through metal, skin golden with a tan that's almost rare, and George swears he sees a bluish tint to his sand-colored hair and a bit of neutral-toned eyeshadow.

"I don't know, what's good here?" Dream asks, turning back in George's direction. George swiftly averts his eyes and looks up at the menu, though he already knows what he'll have. Well, maybe he'll change it to strawberry this time.

"My mother doesn't like me having coffee. It's bad for my heart. So I just had a blueberry yogurt smoothie yesterday, which was really good. Though I might switch things up and go with strawberry this time," George says.

"Aw, what a shame. I like coffee."

"You can still get coffee," George laughs as the two take a step forward. "It's not like I can stop you.

Sapnap got a coffee yesterday."

"Sapnap is your roommate?" Dream assumes.

"Oh, yeah. I forgot to tell you his name."

"That's alright. Well, if that's the case, I might just have to go for a hazelnut coffee, though I might ask for a few sips of your smoothie."

George can't help it when his lips turn up into a smile. Dream doesn't even have to do anything to make that happen. It's almost surreal. "That's perfectly okay with me."

After receiving their orders, they sit down at the stools that overlook the rest of the campus. The student union is visible from where they're sitting, though the core is a bit further down, past the union. George notices that there are actually flowers everywhere along the walkways, whether they're large bushes or just a few sprouts here and there. 

"The plant life on this campus is amazing," George thinks aloud.

"You think so?" Dream asks.

"Yeah." George glances to his right, where Dream is gazing out at the scenery with a dreamlike stance.

"I agree," Dream says, sipping his coffee. "Whoever gardens the place deserves a raise."

"I saw you like, admiring a flower yesterday. You must like them a lot," George says.

"Oh, y-yeah," Dream stutters slightly, though George doesn't think much of it. "I really, really like plants. And nature."

"Are you majoring in a science?"

Dream shakes his head. "I'm undecided still, though that's probably going to be the route I go down. I have a... knack for anything nature-related. Plants, animals, you name it. If it has to do with the Earth, I'm there. What's your major?"

"Literature," George answers, amused that he's already had to explain this three times. "Since I didn't get out much, I spent a lot of time reading, writing, and watching dramas. I figured it would be a good fit for me. Don't know what I'd do with a degree in it, since... well, you know."

Dream frowns slightly, though he nods. "I hate that you're so set on dying."

George sighs, biting down on his straw. "I... I guess you could say that I hate it too. As much as I joke about it, I don't think anybody wants to be set on dying."

"I was thinking about what you said last night, about how it gets you by," Dream says, and George has to take a moment to think Dream was thinking about him last night. "And I can understand where you're coming from, sort of. As someone who isn't dying, it's a little hard for me to understand how one could be so... cynical when it comes to life, but I guess I just have an overly positive outlook on things."

"Trust me, there's nothing wrong with that. If I could have a more positive outlook on things, I would," George says.

"Well, what's stopping you?"

"Dying."

"I should have expected that answer." Dream smiles again, a lot more modestly this time, almost like he's... sad. "I wish you could live longer, George."

For some reason, that sentence makes George's heart beat faster in his chest. He's sure that his parents, the doctors, hell, even Sapnap and Techno would say and think the same thing, but coming from Dream...

Somehow, it means something.

Still, George finds his guard built up. "You don't know me that well," he mumbles. Because for all he knows, Dream could get sick of him in the next few minutes. Where George could disappear, die, and he wouldn't even notice.

"Well, why do you think I'm here?" Dream asks slyly.

And even though George has never been flirted with in his life, he's fairly certain this is flirting. It's giving him a weirdly uncomfortable yet giddy sensation in his stomach, but at the same time, he's never been so calm, so tranquil in his life. His lungs feel like they're actually lungs. Air enters and escapes them at a normal rate. His chest doesn't hurt.

How does Dream manage to make him feel like this? Shouldn't he feel nervous? Gazing at Dream for too long would probably make him go blind, since the boy shines brighter than any star that George has ever seen. But as much as George thinks he should feel something, he feels the opposite.

Peace. That's what he feels. His body feels calm, normal, and maybe even healthy.

"Anyway," Dream says, "I told you I'd take you exploring today. So, get your oxygen tank ready because we're going to the woods!"

George chokes on his smoothie as he coughs, the pain returning to his chest but at a much lower magnitude. "W-what?" he splutters, still coughing as his lungs and brain catch up.

"Yeah! The campus is near some trails and I wanna take you down them." Dream's mouth spreads into a wide smile, his eyes crinkling as he does.

"Dream, that's really not a good idea. I don't know if there's like, pollen or anything that I could inhale that would cause my lungs to act up, and I certainly am not built for hikes."

"Don't worry about that, Georgie," Dream says, his tone genuine as he gently places his hand over George's wrist. "We won't go far, and I promise there's nothing that will hurt you there. I've actually gone down the trails several times, but I want you to see them for yourself. If it ever starts to hurt or if it feels like too much, just let me know and we'll come back, okay?"

George doesn't know if Dream has some sort of alluring drug perfume on him or something, but against his better judgement, he finds himself agreeing to follow Dream. He's pretty sure he'd follow Dream off of a cliff if it means he gets to breathe like this for the rest of his time alive.

❀ 

The walk to the woods ends up being all the way across campus, yet each single step actually feels like one instead of a thousand, which is definitely something George could get used to. The trek is definitely the most walking George has probably done ever, and it causes his lungs to ache in a much different way. 

He's panting by the time they reach the entrance to the woods, a small clearing where the trees part slightly, and Dream stops in his tracks.

"You feeling okay?" he asks, though he doesn't sound too worried.

"Yeah, just, uh... not used to this amount of exercise," George wheezes as he hunches over, putting his hands on his knees and taking deep breaths through his mouth.

Dream puts his hand on his shoulder and leans down. "It's okay, George. Take your time. I promise the walk won't be that long."

George nods silently, and once his breath finally returns, he looks up to see Dream eyeing him tenderly, his lips curving into a tiny smile when their eyes meet. "You ready?" he asks.

"Yeah," George says, though he's still a little breathless from seeing Dream up so close.

And what's more, Dream takes him by the wrist and tugs him into the clearing. George drags his tank along, though with Dream, he feels like he doesn't really need it.

Leaves and twigs crunch beneath their feet as they walk the trail, and George's oxygen tank occasionally catches on pebbles and sticks and whatever else litters the ground. He just prays it doesn't break as the trails seem to get smaller. They even walk up a few steps formed by rocks implanted into the ground that "aren't man-made," according to Dream. George has to lift his tank up every time.

"You should get straps so you can wear it like a backpack instead of rolling it around," Dream comments.

"I don't go out often enough to warrant that," George replies, chuckling.

"Well, now that you know me, you might wanna invest in that," Dream says with a wink.

The trails almost seem to thin out into only a slim strip of dirt at one point. George doesn't know if the greens surrounding his feet are poison ivy or anything that could possibly cause him to break out.

He's sort of glad he's wearing jeans, but in turn, he's also sweating. He hones in on the one trail of dirt and rocks and places one foot in front of the other, attempting to stay on track.

"Okay, so maybe I sort of lied to you earlier. I don't always follow the trail," Dream says as he turns around to face George. "But don't worry, we won't get lost. I've been down this route many times."

"So... where exactly are we going?" George asks suspiciously, panting once again.

"A really beautiful place I stumbled across one day while I was exploring. I'm sure you'll like it.

Come on." He grabs hold of George's wrist again and pulls him along, eventually turning right, off the trail and into patches of green. George watches his feet, how they almost seem to disappear beneath the plant life. He has absolutely no idea what kinds of plants these are, because he's never been through the woods like this.

He has to admit, though, as much as it's hard to breathe due to the amount of walking, it still feels like a breath of fresh air.

The trees begin to thicken the deeper they travel until eventually, they all seem to cramp together, one tree not even two inches away from another. The leaves are huddled so close together that they nearly block out the sunlight. Dream is still holding onto George's wrist as he glances around, completely immersed in both fascination and fear. "Dream, a-are you sure you know where you're going?"

"Completely sure," Dream replies, not even looking back.

The trail has long disappeared, and the plants around him start to reach up to his calves. At this point, he's basically rolling his tank over the plants. He hopes he's not completely crushing them.

"Almost there," Dream says, peeking over his shoulder. "Are you doing alright? Do you need a breather?"

"No, I'm fine," George reassures, though he's not entirely sure of himself.

About two minutes later, George sees a drastic change in color. The deep green from the grounded plants seems to fade into a lighter emerald that almost glistens in a majestic way. The trees are beginning to part as well, and George can see sunlight beginning to seep through. They come to another clearing, where two towering trees with enormous branches seem to form an arch, and two of their branches bend in such a way that their leaves form a curtain. Dream halts at the leaf curtain and turns to George with a wide grin on his face.

"Are you ready?" Dream asks.

George nods sheepishly, his grip tightening on the handle of his tank as Dream takes his other hand in his and pushes past the curtain of leaves.

The sight is magical.

The sun seems to hang over the oasis, but the amount of trees surrounding it suppresses the harsher rays, providing the perfect amount of light to emphasize the real work of art: a massive spring, surrounded by an array of lush plant life, ranging from vibrant-colored flowers to reeds to shrubs and bushes. When George looks down, he notices tiny blades of grass in the ground instead of solely dirt, which grow significantly the closer they are to the pool.

"Oh," George gasps, his neck straining from looking around so much.

He can breathe.

"This... this is amazing, Dream."

Dream's fingers squeeze his hand as he smiles again. "Isn't it? Come on, let's get closer to the main attraction."

George is too lost in the beauty to register where Dream is taking him. The earth dips slightly as they get closer to the spring. Lily pads float along the surface of the water. George can see tiny fish, orange and white, swimming happily, though he can't see the bottom of the spring for some reason.

"Is it deep?" George asks as he squats down, looking at his reflection in the water.

"It's deeper than you think, but you can still stand in it," Dream tells him. "Come on, this way."

George stands up, his knees aching as he does so, and he drags his tank along with him as Dream guides halfway around the pool. Hidden behind a shrub is a tiny wooden house, almost resembling a birdhouse, that sits upon a miniature tree with a thick trunk. It has no windows but it does have a front door, along with a sign next to it that reads "K.H. & P.S."

"What's that?" George asks, leaning down to examine it further.

There's a slight pause before Dream answers, "It's a fairy house."

"A what?" George looks at him and raises an eyebrow.

Dream shrugs. "My guess is that someone discovered this place and built it for the hell of it.

It's fitting, though, isn't it? As silly as it might sound. Or... or maybe this person who built it actually believed in fairies and hoped one would live in it."

"Why didn't they build windows?" George asks, frowning.

"Beats me. Maybe they're microscopic," Dream jokes, chuckling.

George stands up again, smiling as he does so when he suddenly hears a voice, an unfamiliar one, saying, "Dream, it's good to see you again. What's—" When he turns around, there's a man, a whole person, standing in the middle of the spring, the water barely reaching his collarbone. His eyes widen as he meets George's.

"Who... who is that?" the stranger asks.

His voice is deep and rich, eyes big and intense. He's probably one of the most attractive people George's ever seen. There's a pink splotch right next to his left eye, his skin golden and sparkling beneath the sun. His hair is a light brown, wet from the spring.

"I, um," Dream stammers, apprehensively looking between the two men. "George, this is...Wilbur."

George gawks at the beautiful man, who is eyeing him skeptically, it seems. "I come here often," Dream says. "He's, um... here a lot."

"Was he the one who built the fairy house?" George asks, and Wilbur's eyes visibly widen.

"Dream, what—" "No! No, he's just here a lot. He and I are the only ones who know about this place. And, well, you now." Dream laughs awkwardly.

"Yes..." Wilbur says somewhat doubtful. "Dream doesn't bring people here. Not everybody... knows about this place."

"Guess I'm special then," George quips. Nobody laughs.

Something is off. "So, Wilbur... what do you, um, do here?" George asks.

Wilbur tilts his head, brows knitting together. He looks... confused. "I just enjoy this place," he says, almost as if he's choosing his words carefully. "Sometimes... I like to wash away my troubles in this spring."

"Oh, do you live near here?"

Wilbur's expression is growing continuously wary, his frown deepening. "Not too far."

"Okay!" Dream suddenly exclaims, clapping his hands. "I didn't expect Wilbur to be here, and I think George has had enough exploring for today. We should head back, George. Wilbur... likes to be alone."

George frowns back at Wilbur, more out of confusion than anything else. His skin begins to crawl the more Wilbur's eyes narrow at him. "Y-yeah. We should head back," he concurs, and it takes what feels like forever for him to finally break eye contact with the mysterious man.

"Come on, George. We can come back another time," Dream says, taking George by the wrist again and leading him back to the clearing's entrance. He looks over his shoulder back at Wilbur, who hasn't moved from his spot in the pool, but whose focus remained on them the entire time.

"I'll, uh, see you, Wilbur."

"Hm. Likewise, Dream," Wilbur says.

"Let's go, George," Dream ushers, pulling on George's arm with much more force.

When George looks back for the last time, just before the curtains close, he sees Wilbur's head disappear beneath the crystal-clear water.

❀ 

George's head is spinning when they finally make it back to campus.

Splotches are beginning to appear in the edges of his vision. He blinks, his eyes fluttering as he gasps for breath. He thinks he can vaguely hear Dream's voice echoing in his eardrums before he stumbles over, though his body never lands.

He coughs. It hurts, but not as much as he's used to.

"Oh, god, George! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Dream cries.

He blinks some more. His vision is blurry, but he's still breathing. "I shouldn't have pushed you so hard," Dream says.

"It... it's okay," George says, closing his eyes again in an attempt to dispel the lightheadedness. "I just, uh... need to take a few deep breaths."

"Take your time."

George takes his time. He counts his seconds. He breathes in for five seconds. Holds it for three.

Breathes out for five more seconds. Closes his eyes. Breathes. Tries to ignore the ache in his chest.

Focuses on his breathing. Breathes some more.

There's a hand on his.

"George," Dream says. His skin is warm, George notices. So, so warm.

He breathes again. And again.

Soon enough, he stops counting. He can breathe.

He breathes in for one. Doesn't hold. Breathes out for one.

"Dream," George subconsciously replies.

"Are you okay?" Dream asks, his fingers trembling slightly.

Why are his fingers trembling?

When George finally comes to, he realizes that one of Dream's arms is slung around his shoulders, while his other hand is placed directly over George's, his fingers curled, shaking. Dream had stopped him from collapsing onto the ground.

"Y-yeah," George stutters.

"Can you stand?"

Dream's hand never lifts from his and he helps George to his feet. George doesn't topple over again.

Instead, he breathes in as he stands tall and proud, and releases the breath through his mouth, feeling like he's just recovered from the deepest sleep. "You had me worried there," Dream says.

"I've never... I've never moved so much in one day," George says. "I think I probably just exhausted myself."

"I'm really sorry," Dream mumbles, eyes falling to the ground. "I didn't mean to push you so hard."

"No, please don't feel bad. I came out of my own free will," George says, smiling reassuringly.

Dream sighs, his shaky fingers tightening around George's hand. "Come on, I'll walk you back to your dorm."

For once, George takes the lead and walks with Dream back to his dorm, and despite the questioning looks from other wandering students, Dream never lets go of George's hand.

George breathes the entire way there.

❀ 

When they finally get to George's room, George unlocks the door and Sapnap is inside, clad in a plain white t-shirt and a pair of plaid pajama pants, belly down on his bed, seemingly asleep.

"That's your roommate, I assume," Dream whispers.

George nods. "Yup. Looks like he's still recovering from the party. Well, at least he's back and alive."

Dream giggles as George steps inside. "You can come in," George says.

Dream still doesn't release George's hand as he tiptoes inside. Sapnap snores softly as the two crowd into the compact room and settle on George's bed, and that's when Dream finally lets go of George's hand.

"You should get some rest," Dream says. George glances down at his fingers. They're still shaking.

"So should you," George says.

"I want to make sure you're okay first," Dream counters.

George can't bring himself to look Dream in the eyes. The boy is incredibly sweet and considerate, but George wonders if he's inadvertently flirting like this. Is Dream inviting himself to... watch him sleep? Or something? George can't tell, but he's panicking. He's used to chest pain, dry heaving, coughing until he can't breathe, but he's not used to another human being possibly flirting with him and making his heart beat in an irregular way, one that isn't due to his chronic/terminal illness.

"I'll be okay," George says. "I'm gonna go right to sleep. Or, I'll try to, at least. Hopefully I don't wake up in a coughing fit."

Dream frowns deeply at that. "George, it looks like Sapnap isn't going to wake up anytime soon and I don't want you to be alone in case something happens. I'll... if you don't mind, I can, um, watch over you. Until you fall asleep, I mean."

And who is George to argue with that? A very, very attractive person being willing to stay with him?

A very, very attractive person who George may or may not be attracted to?

It's so tempting, and in the end, George caves.

"Okay."

George scooches over to the side of the bed closest to the wall and shimmies beneath his covers.

Dream remains at the edge of the bed, posture erect and hands neatly folded in his lap.

"Dream... aren't you tired too?"

Dream looks at him questioningly. "What?"

"I just... you can rest here too. For a little bit, I mean."

"George, I couldn't—" 

"I want you to," George blurts. "Just... close your eyes for a few minutes. You seem really tired too."

Dream sighs, but he slides up to the head of the bed and sinks down onto the other one of George's pillows. "Just a few minutes."

George nods. "Just a few minutes."

"Alright."

George doesn't know who falls asleep first, but when he wakes up, Dream is gone. He wonders if Dream even fell asleep in the first place, or if he spent the entire time watching over him, but he thinks, does it really matter?

When George breathes, it's normal. He's back to normal.

He glances over. Sapnap is still unconscious on his bed, though he's rolled over to his side. At least he's alive.

George sighs, a tiny cough escaping his throat, when he notices something on his bedside table that wasn't there before.

A single stemless rose, colored a delicate pastel purple. George picks it up, but the petals disintegrate the moment he cradles it in his palm. He gasps as they basically evaporate into thin air, and while George doesn't know much about plants, he's pretty damn sure that doesn't happen in nature.

Bewildered, he falls back on his bed. He breathes, or tries to, and it's almost as if he can feel the remnants of the flower's petals looming over his head, but it's not threatening in any way.

In fact, he feels as if he's being guarded. Protected.

He's safe.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George is one who believes in second chances; it's just that he's too far gone to get his. His lungs are practically turning to stone, and without an oxygen tank and a tube in his nose, he may as well be dead on the floor.
> 
> One fateful night, he meets Dream, a mysterious boy with a strange affinity for nature, whose world is a little more than supernatural. It's magical.
> 
> (This is a story with VERY long chapters, filled with angst, sadness, and things related to that. tread carefully, but enjoy!!)

George's first checkup at the unfamiliar clinic is pretty standard. They weigh him, check his vitals.

Ask him if he's been taking his medication. Examine his oxygen tank. George is used to it; his examinations back home consisted of a lot of questions, some breathing exercises, sometimes various imaging tests to see if there's been any changes (which, there usually aren't any; his lungs still look like shit). His first appointment here is a lot more of the technical stuff, paperwork and disease history and all sorts of information that George's had to spew plenty of times before.

For this appointment, the most that's done is his oxygen tank gets cleaned. He's sent off on his merry way with another appointment scheduled in three weeks.

Riding the bus back to campus is nerve-wracking, mostly because George isn't used to being in such a crowded space surrounded by people who could be disease-ridden for all he knows. Then again, he thinks he wouldn't necessarily mind dying early. Maybe this whole college experience will be the thing that finally kills him. Maybe all the weed and cigarette smoke will finally collapse his lungs.

Maybe God will finally decide to rid the Earth of the abomination he created.

George sighs to himself silently as he hugs his oxygen tank, finding himself wishing that he had never been born in the first place.

❀ 

When classes begin, George is grateful to Dream for telling him that there's a dining hall near the dorm because he's pretty sure he'd be late to all his classes if there wasn't one. His classes had been arranged in such a way that the building locations were close to his dorm so he wouldn't have to walk much. He isn't sure how his parents managed to finagle that, but it's certainly helpful, especially when George attends his first class and he's already trying not to dry heave as soon as he sits down. He drinks a lot of water and listens to his professors intently, eyes scanning each syllabus he gets and trying not to pay attention to the stares from his peers.

Two of his professors ask to speak with him once class is over. One of them tells George how brave he is, and that if he ever needs anything, to let her know. The other reassures George that he will not treat his students differently from each other, and that he will try to make George feel as comfortable as possible in his class. Ironically, both acts of "kindness" left George with an uneasy feeling creeping across his skin and a nasty first impression of those two professors. He knows they're trying.

Everybody does.

Everybody tries hard for the dying.

Maybe that's why he likes Sapnap and Techno. Sapnap's proven to be an even better roommate than George had initially thought, and his music taste is impeccable. They spend their nights just chilling on their beds with Sapnap's alternative beats playlist playing at a low, relaxing volume and talking about their past endeavors. George learns a lot about Sapnap and vice versa, and even though George insists there isn't much else to him besides his illness, Sapnap finds a way to really engage him into profound conversations where George feels like he can actually talk about himself in ways that he himself had never thought about.

Sapnap is also awfully intelligent, George learns. He'd graduated high school with over a perfect GPA while participating in basketball and student council. George doesn't know how the hell he ended up with a roommate as incredible as Sapnap, but he sure is thankful.

They also visit the café together sometimes, and when Sapnap officially meets Techno, George can already see the sparks fly. They hit it off immediately, and as soon as Techno's shift ends he joins George and Sapnap at their table. Though George is used to the intellectual conversations that he and Sapnap hold, Techno offers the humor, most of which is less than intelligent, but it makes Sapnap laugh so hard that smoothie nearly spews from his nostrils. George has to do his best not to laugh too hard for obvious reasons.

And then there's Dream.

After Dream left George's room that day, he didn't text George for the entirety of syllabus week, or the week after that. George secretly hoped each passing night that he would because he really did want to see Dream again, but he figured that maybe Dream was upset with him because he couldn't keep it together after their little adventure. Or maybe Dream was upset with himself because he pushed George into doing something he really didn't have the physical capability of doing.

George doesn't think the former is the truth, however.

But it was okay. George had Sapnap and Techno, two friends that he really considered friends. More friends that George has ever had in his lifetime.

With Dream's absence, however, George finds it harder and harder to breathe.

Despite having his tank cleaned and revamped, he still finds himself coughing his brains out at random and inconvenient times. He tries to suppress it most of the time, sometimes succeeding if he chugs a bunch of water, but one time, it's at night when he's just laying in his bed with Sapnap across the way, and Sapnap almost panics.

"George, should I call somebody?" Sapnap asks, trying to remain calm.

George manages to shake his head even though the coughing is so intense that it blurs his vision for a few seconds. He doesn't know how long he coughs for. Sapnap stands at his bedside, hesitantly holding out his hand unknowing if he should touch him or not. Eventually, George does stop coughing, his throat ablaze and his vision fuzzy. He blinks away a few tears that sprung during the episode, clearing his scratchy throat before turning to Sapnap. "I'm sorry you had to see that." His voice is understandably hoarse.

"It's okay," Sapnap says earnestly. "It was scary, but I'm glad you're alright."

George shrugs. "It's a normal thing. I know it sounds scary, but it's not as bad as it sounds, I promise."

As soon as he says it, he realizes that maybe that's not the truth.

It probably is as bad as it sounds, but it's happened so often that George is used to it being that way.

"If you say so," Sapnap says, though doubt is heavily present in his tone.

George's coughing fits range from mild to severe. He's out with Sapnap and Techno when he has a minor one, small coughs that he easily keeps contained in his mouth, though his two friends still watch him with concern. It happens during one or two of his classes, but his coughs are drowned out by videos that miraculously play at the same time.

George has to remind himself to breathe each time he has a fit, but it's exhausting. Breathing hurts just as much as the coughing does. He misses the feeling he got when he was with Dream. When he could breathe like his lungs weren't constantly scarring over, when he could breathe like each puff of air felt like the freshest oxygen to ever enter his lungs.

He misses Dream.

❀

It's Friday night when George does something really stupid.

Sapnap is out at another party, leaving George alone in the dorm. He texts Techno and asks if he's busy, and it turns out he's staying late at the dance studio for practice. It leaves George alone with his laptop and oxygen tank, lo-fi beats and mechanical whirring. He's incredibly bored.

Before he can even process the potential consequences, he's leaving his dorm room and walking in a familiar direction.

As the summer night breeze blows his hair back, he breathes shallowly, already beginning to feel the fatigue set in his bones, but he's almost made it to his destination. The stars shine above him, along with the street lamps and emergency lights. His mind wanders, and he finds himself remembering the last time he saw Dream.

The flower.

He halts quite abruptly when he remembers it. How the petals had dissolved in his hands. How Dream had gone without a trace. But when George thinks about it, maybe Dream had left a trace.

A flower disintegrating like that isn't normal, but George had been so caught up in college life that he didn't really think about it. And now, Dream isn't speaking to him.

Shaking his head and snapping himself out of his trance, he keeps walking, dragging his tank along. It takes about two more minutes for him to reach his destination, where the lights have mostly diminished, offering little illumination when he stops. He glances up, the towering trees a vague memory, but certainly not the spring.

No, George remembers the spring very vividly.

But the more he thinks about it, the more bizarre he realizes it is. A man randomly bathing in the spring, who Dream seemed to know quite well and vice versa. A spot that seemed too peaceful and otherworldly to be real. Maybe he really was hallucinating it; maybe the shortage of oxygen to his brain made him see things. Yeah, that had to be it.

George looks down from the trees and at the grass beneath him. He can't see the greenness because of the lack of light, but he can imagine it.

Everything is weird. Everything surrounding Dream is weird. When he thinks about everything he knows about Dream, from the story of his guardians finding him in a basket to the spring to the disappearing flower, he finds his head getting tangled in a web of unexplainable events. He's confused as hell, to say the least.

He sighs. He supposes trying to connect the dots of Jung Dream's life is better than contemplating his sad, sad existence.

"George?"

George's heart nearly stops. "George, what are you doing here?"

When George glances to his left, there's Jung Dream, dressed similarly to when George had first met him, approaching carefully. "You shouldn't be here, George. Alone, especially," Dream admonishes, though his tone is soft.

"I'm sorry," George says without even knowing why he is. "I was bored at the dorm and... I honestly don't know why I walked here."

"You know this place is farther than the café. You shouldn't walk this far alone."

"I know." George offers him a helpless smile.

Dream sighs and reaches his hand out, a small smile appearing on his face. "Come on, George.

You need to rest for a little while before you go back to your dorm." George takes his hand and he immediately tugs it along, prompting George to start walking with him. "My place isn't far. You can rest there for a little while, and I'll walk you back to your dorm later tonight."

"Okay," George agrees way too easily.

And just like before, George finds it undoubtedly easier to breathe.

❀

Dream's place is more like a cottage, a tiny house that looks like it's just one floor. It's painted a soft yellow, with a green roof and window accents. There's a garden on either side of the stone pathway where plants of unidentifiable varieties sprout from the soil. There are even planters home to vibrantly-colored flowers fixed upon the windowsills and flower decorations on the front door.

Similar to the one at the spring, there's a tiny house sitting in one of the gardens, and it looks to be a miniature replica of the actual house.

"I know it looks a bit... flower-y," Dream says as they approach the front door. "My guardians really like to garden."

"I can see that," George chuckles.

"And I know the house looks small on the outside, but it's bigger on the inside." Dream twists the doorknob and pushes it open, and George is immediately hit with a whiff of a flower-like scent.

What flower it is, George can't tell, but it's almost overwhelming. It's not unpleasant, not in the slightest, but it does make his head spin a bit.

"I'm home!" Dream announces. The immediate hallway's light is on, as is another light further in that George assumes is the kitchen. When he glances around, he can see what Dream meant when he said it looks smaller than it actually is. The ceilings are much higher than George anticipated.

"In the kitchen!" a voice calls back. "We're making dinner!"

"Your guardians?" George asks in a whisper.

"Yup," Dream answers not in a whisper. He lets go of George's hand. "I promise they're not mean.

They might be a little skeptical of you at first since I don't really bring friends here, but they're some of the sweetest people you'll ever meet."

George nods, confident in Dream's claim, and follows Dream into the kitchen. There are two people, one over the stove and the other at the kitchen island chopping up vegetables. The one over the stove has a full head of shiny jet black hair, and the other has an equally lustrous head of white.

"Sorry I'm a bit late, I was reading at the library," Dream says.

"That's alright, Dreamie. We trust you. Besides, it's not like we control you or anything," the one over the stove responds without even turning around. On the other hand, the one chopping vegetables looks up.

"So how was—" The white-haired man stops his words as soon as his eyes meet George's. "Oh. Who...who is this, Dream?"

The question makes the raven-haired man turn around. His eyes widen, head tilting in bewilderment. "Is this a friend of yours?"

Dream nods as George immediately bows. "My name is George," George says. "It's nice to meet you."

The two men exchange a questioning glance between each other before acknowledging George's introduction. "Ah, forgive us," the black-haired man says, setting down the ladle in his hand. "My name is Quackity. I'm Dream's..."

"Guardian," Dream finishes for him. "It's okay, Quackity. I already told him."

Quackity and the other man look at each other again, some sense of panic in both of their eyes.

"Yes, guardian," Quackity says hesitantly.

"And my name is Karl," the other man says. "Dream's other... guardian. It's nice to meet you as well, George."

George bows again. "I'm sorry for bringing him here without saying anything," Dream interjects.

"I found him out near the clearing, alone, and with his... condition, I didn't want him to walk back to his dorm alone, and I figured he could use a rest before he made the trip back."

Quackity nods understandingly. "I see. Well, feel free to make yourself at home, George. You may stay for dinner as well. It will be ready in about an hour."

"Thank you very much," George says.

Dream takes George on the grand tour of the house, which, like he said, is much bigger than it looks. There's an entire lower floor that Dream doesn't take George down because of the stairs, but the first floor alone seems to be bigger than the house itself. Adjacent to the kitchen is a living room with windchimes and other whimsical decorations hanging from the ceiling, some sort of crystal ball propped upon a bronze sculpture in the middle of the room, a Victorian-style fireplace on the farthest wall, and photographs adorning the pastel yellow walls. George looks at everything curiously, especially the photographs.

A lot of them are in black and white or faded yellow, like photographs that would have been taken a whole century ago. "Ah, Quackity and Karl like a lot of vintage stuff," Dream says. "They collect antiques sometimes, and they like to take pictures with cameras from different eras. Surprisingly, they still work."

"I see," George says, astounded. Certainly enough, the majority of photos are of Quackity and Karl, some of which are of them with a group of other people. George notices that the newer the photos look, the more Quackity and Karl seem to smile.

"Yeah, they're quite old-fashioned, as you might be able to tell," Dream says with a laugh.

"But I promise they're cooler than they might seem on the surface. For example, they don't smother me like most parents would."

"What do you mean?"

"Like, they don't obsessively worry about me. They have a lot of faith in me, and as long as I come home unscathed they won't question me," Dream says.

"That's debatable!" Karl calls out from the kitchen, making George and Dream laugh.

"Well, they don't question me most of the time," Dream amends.

Though George is especially curious about downstairs, Dream insists that he doesn't go down because of his tank. It's hard to argue with that, as George hasn't had to climb a flight of stairs in a long time, and he remembers the last time he climbed stairs being a difficult feat. Dream does tell him, however, that his bedroom is down there, and apologizes that he won't get to see it. "Maybe, if you invest in some oxygen tank straps, I'll take you down there," he says, and George just rolls his eyes and punches Dream's arm playfully.

George makes a note to invest in oxygen tank straps.

Quackity and Karl call the two for dinner not even an hour later, and they all sit around the dining table. They've made steak and some sort of vegetable stir fry, and while George isn't the biggest fan of vegetables, he can't deny that it smells divine.

When they all settle into their seats, George can't help but feel a bit awkward. He's never had to experience this before, as he hasn't made many friends in his lifetime, and he can already tell Quackity and Karl are wary of him. Even so, he can tell that Dream's guardians are trying their best to help George feel welcome.

"So, George," Quackity says. "If you do not mind me asking, what is your ailment?"

"Oh, um, pulmonary fibrosis." George always expects the question.

Quackity nods. "Ah. What a gruesome disease."

Karl hums in agreement. "Have they developed a cure for that yet?"

"No," George says. "I don't think there will ever be one."

"I am inclined to agree. Scars of any variety cannot be fully healed, and I imagine that is especially true when it comes to internal ones."

George is taken aback at Quackity's knowledge of the disease. "It's... definitely not easy," he says.

"Still, for you to have such an illness at a young age... is it genetic?" Quackity asks.

"I'm not sure. The doctors aren't sure either. It's inconclusive, probably always will be."

"Idiopathic, perhaps," Karl chimes in. "But even then, a case of any nature in someone so young is extremely rare."

"Are you two doctors?" George blurts.

The two of them look at each other and laugh. "No, George. We are not doctors. We just know a lot of things," Quackity says.

"We read a lot of books," Karl adds, holding back a chuckle.

George can't stop thinking about how... weird Quackity and Karl are, but then again, anything surrounding Dream has proven to be quite weird. His guardians are no exception. Plus, there's the whole trope of them finding Dream in a basket, so...

"You're both very knowledgeable," George says, bowing his head.

Karl smiles warmly at him, eyes crinkling at the sides. "Why, thank you, George. Knowledge comes with time and experience. We may know about your disease, but only what we learn from books and studies. We will never know what your pain is like because we have not experienced it for ourselves." Quackity nods.

"We are sure you suffer a great deal, and for that, we express our condolences. If there ever comes a time where you need assistance, please let Dream know. And Dream." Quackity turns towards the younger. "Please let us know as well. We would like to do our best to help."

George doesn't know how these two would be able to help, but he appreciates the sentiment nonetheless. Dream, with a face stuffed full of vegetables, nods. "Dream, I thought we raised you better than that," Karl laughs, affectionately patting Dream's arm. Dream chews the rest of his food quickly and pouts.

"What, can I not chew my food?" he sasses, eliciting a similar laugh from Quackity.

At the mention of Quackity and Karl "raising" Dream, George suddenly notices that they don't look much older than him. Dream, who is twenty years old, looks about the same age as his guardians.

What the fuck?

For the most part, they eat in silence, but George is finding it hard to dispose of the thought now. It's bugging him probably a lot more than it should, but it's just so weird, and the more he tries to wrap his head around it, the more confused he becomes. He occasionally glances up at Quackity and Karl to observe their features, which are eerily perfect. Their skin is smooth and blemish-free, devoid of wrinkles or any sort of spots. With jawlines that look like they could cut someone and flawless complexions and facial features, George doesn't understand how these two could have possibly "raised" Dream when Dream can't look that much younger than them.

And not only that, but Quackity's eyes are blue and Karl's eyes are green. Sure, they could be contacts, especially with how strikingly vibrant the colors are, but with how weirdly perfect they are, he can't erase the possibility that they might be real.

Karl's hair isn't damaged at all from what George can tell, and he imagines that dyeing a hair to that extent would be extremely taxing on one's hair. But Karl's hair is as voluminous and sheen as can be, and there aren't even any darker roots poking through. His hair is entirely white.

Before he knows it, the others have finished their food while he's still picking away at his. Granted, he has a lot on his mind and his appetite isn't exactly the strongest. He looks to Quackity apologetically, but the older just smiles at him and tells him to take his time as he and Karl pick up their dishes. He even takes Dream's.

"Thank you, Quackity," Dream says.

"We wouldn't make you leave your friend," Quackity says with a wink. He turns away before he can notice Dream narrowing his eyes at him.

When George looks at Dream, he can see the resemblance between him and his guardians.

Similarly to them, Dream is basically perfect, which probably explains how George was so captivated by him. A perfectly sculpted jawline, healthy and brilliant hair, a flawless complexion.

His eyes aren't blue or green, but a lighter shade of brown that George has never seen before, at least around where he lived. No, Dream is definitely abnormal, but in the most beautiful way.

"You're staring," he says, a smirk playing on his face.

George snaps out of it, sheepishly looking back down at his food. "S-sorry."

Dream just giggles, that addicting sound. "It's alright. How are you feeling?"

"Good," George answers, shoving another mouthful of food into his face to hide his embarrassment.

He can already feel his cheeks heating up.

But he really does feel good. He hasn't really been paying attention, but he's been breathing fine, more than fine, actually, for the entirety of his visit. He wonders if he hadn't really noticed it because this is how he's supposed to breathe, like any other human whose lungs aren't turning to stone. He hasn't even coughed once. His lungs feel fine.

More than fine. George feels good. Normal.

George feels normal when he's with Dream.

It's weird.

❀ 

When George finally finishes his food, Dream gets up to use the bathroom. Quackity appears from the kitchen to retrieve George's plate, but in exchange, places a porcelain teacup in front of him.

"What is it?" he asks.

"It's an herbal tea infused with ingredients that will give you strength for the walk back to your dorm," Quackity informs him.

"Oh. Thank you very much," George says, bowing his head.

Quackity smiles at him again, but doesn't turn to leave. Instead, he hovers above George, as if to watch him take a sip. Catching on, George takes his first sip, expecting it to be piping hot and bitter, but it's neither of those things. It's the perfect temperature, hot but not scalding, and the taste is mild and sweet, very much like honey. "It's good," he says.

"That's good to hear," Quackity says. He sighs. "You know, George, Dream has never brought people here."

George remembers Dream briefly mentioning that when they arrived. "I apologize if Karl and I sounded a bit cautious of you when you first got here, but, well, you must be very special if Dream brought you here. Not that he's afraid of introducing people to us or anything like that, but... well, don't tell him I told you this, but he never really made that many friends growing up."

That makes George frown. How could Dream not make any friends? Sure, Dream was home-schooled just like he was, but from what George can tell, Dream is much more outgoing and full of life, not weighed down by disease or anything that would hinder his ability to make friends.

In fact, it seems like Dream would make a lot of friends. "So he's never brought anybody here to meet us," Quackity continues. "He... never had anybody to bring."

"Oh," George says, not knowing what else to say.

"He was home-schooled, yes, but he had plenty of outings when he was younger where he could have made friends. But he always insisted that the kids his age didn't like the things he liked, so he played alone." Quackity smiles comfortingly. "I promise it isn't as sad as it may sound. Dream was always optimistic growing up and he said he didn't need a lot of friends to be happy."

George agrees. He didn't really have friends growing up either, though it was mostly because he was cooped up inside with his illness. He was friendly with a patient with whom he shared a room in the hospital once, but that's about it. When George thinks about it, maybe he wasn't really happy growing up, but it wasn't because of the lack of friends.

Probably the lack of going outside in general.

"Out of curiosity, George, what did Dream tell you about us?" Quackity asks all of a sudden.

"Oh, um, he said..." George pauses, not knowing how to approach this. He feels like Dream may have overshared and that Quackity would be mad at him for doing so. But Quackity's tone doesn't read angry at all, simply curious. "He said that you and Karl are his guardians who might as well be his parents."

Quackity hums and nods. "Did he tell you how we came to raise him?"

"He... said you found him in a basket by a train station."

"Oh, he said that?" Quackity says with a single raised eyebrow. "I'm surprised he told you such a thing. You must have been utterly confused." George nods to agree with his statement. "Well, as absurd as it sounds, it is the truth. Karl and I were out one night when we came across an infant in a basket. There was no one else around, just little Dream sleeping, wrapped up in blankets in a basket adorned with flowers."

"Flowers?"

Quackity nods. "They were placed neatly around him, and there were vines of them weaved into the basket. Whoever left him there quite obviously had a thing for nature." He pauses as if to think.

"Karl and I believe that whoever left him there did not do it out of spite, but because they wanted somebody else to raise him. Perhaps they didn't see themselves fit to be parents, or wanted a better future for him. If they really did not care for him, they wouldn't have left him there in such a fashion."

"Makes sense," George says.

"I know you must think that a lot of the things Dream tells you are strange, and understandably so. But just know that Dream telling you these things means he really trusts you, and that means Karl and I do too. We trust that you will not go around telling people about what Dream tells you." Quackity's tone suddenly turns solemn, his ocean blue eyes staring intensely into George's. George can feel his blood run cold under such an icy glare, but it's not hostile.

"Y-yes, of course." George gives a solid nod, hoping Quackity doesn't question him.

"Good. Well, I'll leave you to your tea. I've pestered you enough for one night." Bowing his head and smiling reassuringly, Quackity turns on his heels and heads back into the kitchen. Almost as if on cue, Dream reappears.

"Hey, George, I'm back! Hope you—oh, Quackity made you tea?"

"Oh, um, yeah. Said it would help me with the walk back."

Dream scoffs and shakes his head, though he's smiling. "Oh, Quackity. Always thinking of others like that. Is it good?"

George takes another sip, not realizing he's been holding the cup the entire time. "Yeah, it's good."

"Quackity's tea concoctions are always good. He always knows what to put in it," Dream says, sitting down next to George. He sighs and turns in his direction. "Look, Georgie, I'm really sorry I haven't been exactly present the past week."

"It's okay—" "It's not though." Dream immediately frowns. "I guess... I don't know, I thought you were mad at me because I made you go exploring."

"I wasn't... no, I wasn't mad at all," George says earnestly. "I promise I wasn't mad. If anything, I thought you might've been mad at me for some reason."

"What reason would I have to be mad at you?"

"I don't know."

Dream chuckles, and George can't help but smile. The sound is so precious, like George wants to protect it. He wants to keep hearing it. "We should really work on this whole communication thing if we're gonna stay friends. Deal?"

"Deal."

George sips at the rest of tea, watching the house-shaped clock on the wall tick away. It has floral designs much like everything else in the house, its wands elegantly crafted into intricate twists, almost like vines. There are two small beams on either side of the clock, and resting on top of them are two tiny fairy figurines. "George?"

"Oh, sorry. Spaced out for a second there." George still doesn't look away from the clock. He squints, noticing that the fairy figurines look slightly familiar. One has black hair, the other has white, and they both have wings that spread out from their backs, painted a pastel pink and a baby blue, respectively. "That's a nice clock."

"Oh, that. Yeah, Karl had it custom made. They're really into, like, dainty decorations," Dream says.

More like fantastical, George thinks. Old-fashioned, sort of; the house reminds George a lot of something out of the early nineteen-hundreds, especially with all the faded yellow walls and pastel-colored decor, but it's cute. Even though the house looks old, it's far from decay. George swears he hasn't seen a single speck of dust in the place, and the floors, though seemingly worn, don't make a sound when walked upon.

Despite its overall shabby appearance, the house is immaculate. George is amazed by it.

"George, do you feel well enough to make the trip back to your dorm?" Dream asks, and oh right, George has a dorm to go back to. If he's being honest, he's been ready; his lungs are being lungs and he hasn't let out a single cough. He feels like he can make the walk back with little difficulty, but he knows he probably can't do it alone.

"Yeah," George says, nodding, even though he doesn't really want to go back yet. His gaze is fixed on the empty teacup. He feels a bit sad for some reason, but maybe he has outstayed his welcome.

"Are you ready to go? I don't want to keep you here too late."

No, I don't want to go.

"Yeah, I am." Fuck.

Dream smiles and stands, as does George, but he can already feel himself frowning internally.

Going back to the dorm means Dream will have to leave, and he doesn't want Dream to leave. He wants Dream to stay, because he feels normal whenever he's with Dream.

It's weird.

They're at the front door when George hears Quackity say, "Wait." They both turn to see Quackity and Karl approaching, and in Quackity's hand is a single stemless flower, colored a brilliant fuchsia.

George hears Dream inhale sharply. "Quacki—" "For you, George," Quackity says, cradling the flower with both of his hands.

Perplexed but flattered, George takes the flower delicately. He's no botanist, but it sure is pretty.

"What is it?"

"An azalea," Quackity says. Karl is smiling beside him, nodding as if to concur with Quackity's answer. "Please, George, take care. If you ever need anything, let Dream know. And Dream." Quackity turns to him. "If George needs anything that we can help with, let us know."

He looks between the two of them and smiles warmly, just like before. "Both of you, take care of each other, alright?"

George glances over to see Dream smiling as well, bowing his head. "Of course."

"Y-yeah," George agrees, nodding.

"Thank you for coming to visit, George," Karl says. "It was lovely meeting you."

"Oh, thank you for having me! It was nice meeting you too." George bows, as do Quackity and Karl, before he and Dream step back out into the summer night.

The walk back to the dorm is mostly silent, apart from the chirping of the cicadas and the occasional brush of wind. George holds the azalea in one hand and the handle to his oxygen tank in the other, but he finds himself staring down at Dream's hand a couple times, wishing he could be holding it instead. Dream, seemingly oblivious, keeps his eyes fixed ahead of them.

George doesn't know how long the walk is, but it doesn't feel long at all. Not like the walk to the clearing, where George's lungs felt like shit and his body was ready to stop. Somehow, the moments with Dream don't last long enough, or they feel like they last a shorter amount of time than it actually is. All George knows is that when Dream is around him, he feels like he could take on the world without an oxygen tank, without anybody to hold his hand and walk through life with him.

But Dream is that one exception.

The trip up to George's floor is still silent. While George's lungs are working fine, he certainly feels like his heart isn't. It's beating faster, too hard for his liking, and he wonders if his disease has spread to his heart. He's never experienced this sort of thing before.

"Can you hold this?" George asks Dream, holding out the pink azalea. Dream takes it and George fishes the key to his dorm out of his pocket. He's holding it just as tenderly as George had, looking down at it with a certain something in his eyes. "Thanks." Dream nods, handing the flower back to George.

Of course, Sapnap isn't back yet. It's nearly eleven, but George figures he'll still be out for much longer. The beats are still playing, and Sapnap's desk lamp is still switched on. George turns to Dream, who smiles at him. "Um, thank you for walking back with me," George says.

"No problem, George."

George. George doesn't know how such a nickname can make his heart flutter. "Are you still feeling okay?" Dream questions, his smile disappearing and eyes filling with concern instead.

"Yeah," George says. "I'm feeling great."

The smile returns. "I'm glad. I'm, uh, sorry if my guardians came across as a little weird. I know they're old-fashioned and all. You probably weren't expecting the house to look so... not modern."

"No, no! It's fine, really. I kinda liked it, had a cute vintage charm to it." Dream giggles at that.

George wants to play it on repeat.

"Well, George, I wasn't planning on running into you tonight, but I'm glad I did," Dream says, and George can feel his heart picking up speed again. Dream is going to leave soon. "Text me, yeah? Again, I'm sorry about the whole not texting you thing this past week. I promise I'll be more cautious of that."

"No worries."

But George is worrying. He wants Dream to stay.

"Well, have a good night, George."

"Wait."

As Dream turns on his heels, George's body acts on its own. He reaches for Dream's hand, catching his fingers and dropping the flower as a result. Dream stares dumbfounded at their hands, then looks back up at George.

And as George's heart does a kickflip, his lungs are instantly hit with a breath of fresh air. He's never found it so easy yet so difficult to breathe. "Yeah?" Dream says, ever so patient.

Golden. That's what his eyes are. Golden eyes and golden skin, the epitome of perfection if George's ever known it. George wants to look at them forever. As he breathes, he can feel himself getting lost in Dream's eyes, and it takes everything in George's being to remember that Dream has to leave, and that he can't keep him here forever.

"Thank you."

He doesn't say what for.

Dream doesn't ask, either. The golden boy just smiles, not widely but not disingenuously.

"You're welcome, George. Have a good night, okay? And take care of yourself."

"I will."

And George lets Dream go. He doesn't watch, because it might be too painful to, but he does kneel down and picks up the flower that he accidentally dropped while grabbing Dream's hand. It's still there, still pink, colorful. It doesn't evaporate.

George eyes it as he walks to his bed. It doesn't disappear. When he places it on his nightstand, it remains. He sighs with relief, wondering why he's so afraid it'll disappear. It was a gift from Quackity; why would it disappear? Sure, it happened that one other time, but that doesn't mean it'll happen this time. After all, Quackity gave it to him, in the flesh. It's a real, solid flower.

Out of everything George could have done, he thanked Dream, for nothing in particular. He rolls his eyes at himself, thinking about how stupid he must have sounded.

Letting out a deep breath, George swings himself onto his bed and takes out his phone, only to see a few texts from Techno from not too long ago.

[Techno] 

yo! just got out of practice, u still wanna hang?

just let me know what's up, i'll be awake all night lol 

Even though he's tired, George could still use some company. Plus, the texts were from about twenty minutes ago. Surely Techno is still awake and willing to hang out.

[George] 

yeah sure, I'm at the dorm rn Sapnap's at a party, so it's just me. Feel free to come over

[Techno] 

k cool, be there in about a half hour. 

George lets out another deep breath, locking his phone and setting it down next to him. He rolls over, facing his nightstand. With the help of his oxygen tank, he breathes, his heart beating normally again, and watches the flower until his eyes slip shut.

❀ 

George awakes to the sound of knocking. It's a solid knock, not soft but not pounding either. It takes him a few seconds to remember that Techno is coming over. Grunting, he stands up, coughing as he does so, and waddles over to the door. Techno's there, gummy smile and all, with a bottle in his hand. "Guess who!"

"Techno, I can see you," George replies flatly.

Techno pouts, stepping past George and into the dorm room. "You're no fun."

"I'm dying."

"Touché." Techno smirks, pointing a finger at him using the hand that's holding a bottle of alcohol, now that George can see it.

"Techno, I can't drink," he says. "Too risky."

"Who said it was for you?" Techno responds sarcastically, and George can't argue with that. "It's just some cheap wine my roommate smuggled onto campus during the move in. Figured it would just make me giggly and hopefully funnier."

"Well, don't make me laugh too hard. I'm not trying to make the phrase 'I'm dying' a result of laughter like its modern usage denotes."

"I will try my darned hardest not to be funny. Though a lot of people have laughed just by looking at my face, so."

George chuckles, letting out a tiny cough. "See? Point proven," Techno says. He sits on the floor by the side of Sapnap's bed, whipping out his keychain that apparently has a built-in bottle opener attached to it, and pops the cork on the bottle. "Well, since you're not having any, don't mind if I do." And, sure enough, he sips directly from the bottle.

"Well I'm definitely not having it now," George says, sitting back on his bed when he notices that his breathing has returned to normal.

Normal being shitty.

"So what did you do today?" Techno asks after he takes a sip.

"Went to class. Hung out here for a little before I got bored and went for a walk."

Techno raises an eyebrow. "You went for a walk? By yourself?"

"I'm not useless, okay," George groans, slightly frustrated. "I went for a walk by myself the night I met you, remember?"

"Oh, yeah. Okay, so you went for a walk. Where did you go?"

"Um... sort of off campus."

"Okay, well, that's definitely farther than the café, and you went alone," Techno points out, frowning. "Where off campus did you go?"

"Just near some woods. I don't know how to describe it specifically, but yes, it's definitely farther than the café."

"You went out near some woods, alone, with your oxygen tank. And you didn't collapse?" Techno asks.

George scoffs. "No, and I'm clearly unscathed so I didn't get hurt or anything like that. Besides, one of my friends was close by and happened to see me, so he... walked me back here."

"Sapnap?"

"No, his name is Dream. You haven't met him. Sapnap hasn't met him either."

When George thinks about it, he hasn't even told Sapnap about Dream yet. He supposes it's an important thing to tell them. "I met him the same night I met you, after I left the café." George says.

"He was hanging out near the fountain and just started talking to me."

Techno nods consideringly. "Just out of nowhere? Sounds like a nice dude."

George chuckles at the fond memory. "Yeah, he said I looked lonely and could use someone to talk to.

In a way, I guess I'm glad he approached me like that. He's... a really good friend."

"A really good friend, eh?" Techno says suggestively, waggling his eyebrows as he takes another sip from the bottle.

"What?" George frowns defensively.

"You talk about him in a way, like, you're completely smitten. Don't know if you notice it, but you sound like you're totally in love with him." Techno says, his words already not stringing together well.

"Wha—no! We've literally known each other for a week. And I don't... I don't even like guys like that."

Right?

Techno just bursts out laughing. "Oh, man. Look, I'm about as straight as a cooked noodle. I don't judge."

"You're gay?"

"Bi, thank you very much." Techno giggles like a fucking school girl despite his voice being deeper than the Grand Canyon. "But I just like to use that analogy. Look, point is, you can say you like guys. It's okay."

"Techno, I have never once thought of a guy like that," George says.

"Doesn't mean you won't," Techno argues, grinning and raising his eyebrows playfully.

And honestly, George can't really refute that. It's college. For all George knows, he could have some sort of sexual awakening. Not that he's ever really thought about it in depth, though. With all the appointments and coughing and dying, George doesn't really think about his attraction to people all that much. But he supposes college could be the opportunity he has to figure shit out.

But the important thing here is, he is not smitten. He doesn't have feelings for Dream.

Dream.

As soon as George thinks of his name, he coughs, suddenly remembering the flower. When he glances to the nightstand, the spot where he'd left the flower is vacant. He stands up almost instantly, nearly losing his balance and stumbling on his own two feet. "Whoa, there," Techno says. "What's wrong?"

"I... Techno, when you came in, did you see a flower there?" George points to the spot.

Techno looks at the nightstand, confused. "Um... no? I don't think so."

"It was bright pink."

"Then no, I didn't see it," Techno says. "Why?"

"It was there! I put it there!" George near exclaims, frantically looking around the room. There's no sight of any pink flower. "There's no way—" He coughs. Once, once more, and several after that. Collapsing from his feet and onto the bed, George clutches his chest with one of his hands and coughs into the other, his eyes squeezing shut as his body exudes nothing but coughs and pain. His head pounds, and he closes his eyes to bypass the blurry vision.

"George, h-hey," Techno says, and George can feel hands on him.

"Don't," he manages to croak out in between coughs. He shakes his head as firmly as he can. Techno releases him.

"Should I call someone?" he asks, voice serious unlike any other time George's heard him speak.

George shakes his head again as his coughs sizzle down into wheezes. "Water," he gasps, pointing to his desk where he always keeps a bottle of water. Techno retrieves it quickly, and before George can start coughing again, he opens the bottle and chugs it. He takes deep breaths through the cannula in his nose, his head slowly regaining consciousness as he opens his eyes. Techno is looking down at him, worry flooding his eyes.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

Not really, George thinks, but for now, after a coughing episode, he is. He nods, and Techno lets out a sigh. "Wow, that was scary."

"It's normal," George says, his voice still hoarse. "Sapnap witnessed it not too long ago. Just, if it ever happens again, don't touch me and don't call anyone. I'm fine when it happens, it just has to happen, you know?"

"I... guess," Techno says, clearly hesitant.

As the oxygen seeps back into George's system through the tube in his nose, he tilts his head back, looks up at his ceiling, and cries.

It starts out as a lip quiver. Then a few tears. Then many tears.

He knows he's not supposed to cry. But everything is just a constant reminder.

He can't escape this.

"Hey, George," Techno says. There's a hand on his shoulder, and the bed beside him dips. This time, George doesn't tell Techno not to touch him. "It's okay."

George shakes his head again, sniffling. The cannula makes it hard. The cannula makes everything hard. This disease makes everything hard. "Why can't I just be normal?" he whimpers.

Techno slings his arm around George's shoulders. "Why do I have to be fucking dying? If I'm dying, why can't I just fucking die already? It would make things a whole hell of a lot easier for everybody!" His voice raises in volume as more tears begin to pour from his eyes despite his efforts to subdue them.

"George, hey." The hand on his shoulder tightens its grip. "Just let it out."

"I just want to breathe, Techno. Like any other normal human being. I want to be able to walk wherever I want without having to drag around an oxygen tank, drink or eat whatever I want without worrying about getting sick... just, I want to be normal."

"I get it, George."

And George wants to scream, no, you don't fucking get it, but he can't bring himself to. Not when he knows Techno is trying, because everyone tries for the dying. He's doing what he can. He's expressing sympathy. And who is George to tell Techno to fuck off? He's managed to befriend this person, and he's not about to kick him out of his life just for trying.

"You might be dying, sure," Techno says, "but I'm glad you're alive. I'm sure the same goes for Sapnap and Dream too. Of course we don't want you to be dying... but we don't want you to be dead either. So while you're still alive... for our sake and yours, please don't say that you wish you were dead or anything like that."

George can't argue with him. He can't argue because Techno is right.

"I just... I just bring everyone down. I'm nothing but a hindrance."

Techno shakes his head as well as George's shoulders. "No. You think you're a hindrance. Nobody else thinks that."

"But—" "No but's," Techno interrupts, gripping his shoulders tightly. "Yes, watching you cough like that was scary, but that doesn't make me not want to be your friend. You're stuck with me now, Choi George.

I'm not going anywhere, and like I said, I'm sure Sapnap and Dream feel the same way."

George can't help but smile a bit. He sniffles again, the cannula still making it difficult, but somehow, it feels easier. "Thank you, Techno."

"Anytime."

It's then that George remembers how he'd thanked Dream as well, for nothing in particular, but he finds himself drawing the parallels. When George is with Dream, he feels normal, the one thing George wishes for more than anything else. Here, with Techno, he feels reassured, as short-lived as it may be. It's the same with Dream; he can't be with Dream all the time, as they live two separate lives, but he wants to be.

With the time George spends with Dream, he feels like everything that he isn't, everything that he wishes he were.

He'd thanked Dream for nothing in particular, but perhaps it's because he was thanking him for everything.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George is one who believes in second chances; it's just that he's too far gone to get his. His lungs are practically turning to stone, and without an oxygen tank and a tube in his nose, he may as well be dead on the floor.
> 
> One fateful night, he meets Dream, a mysterious boy with a strange affinity for nature, whose world is a little more than supernatural. It's magical.
> 
> (This is a story with VERY long chapters, filled with angst, sadness, and things related to that. tread carefully, but enjoy!!)

Dream almost throws a party when George finally gets the straps for his oxygen tank. In fact, he goes over to George's dorm and helps him attach them. Even though George would still have to lug his tank around while he has his backpack on for class, at least he can carry his tank on his back whenever he goes exploring with Dream (or just anywhere else in general).

That day is when Dream finally gets to meet Sapnap. He returns from class to see Dream kneeling down to attach the straps to the tank and George casually standing over him, watching. They hit it off well, with their exuberant energies easily mingling with one another. Whereas Sapnap's is more immature and Dream's is more childlike, it still makes for lighthearted conversation and a whole lot of laughs that George doesn't participate in, but he watches with a smile.

Sapnap treats them to dinner at the student union that night. George makes sure to watch them, to really watch them and the way their faces lift with laughter or how their voices peak or how their eyes and nose scrunch with every nuance of happiness. George's expression is much softer, much lighter on his facial muscles, but his heart is beaming and he feels good. He can breathe.

He can feel the oxygen from his tank circulating through his body. Breathes it in and then pushes it out. It doesn't hurt. Nothing hurts. The tips of his fingers and toes may be swollen, but it's more of a physical hindrance than a pain. Here, surrounded by people who can breathe without an oxygen tank, in front of the two most arguably important people in George's university life, he feels normal.

They take a trip to the center of campus, where the fountain is. Where Sapnap had George take a picture of him, one that's still sitting comfortably in both their phones. Where George first met Dream, who was hunched over some flowers, smiling, however many weeks ago. They're back here again, the three of them.

"You should get up there and get your picture taken, George!" Sapnap says, giving his shoulders a gentle push.

"I don't think that's a good idea," George says. He very well could; stepping onto a ledge of a fountain doesn't require much energy. He can do it and then get off without having to exert much lung power. But he'd much rather watch either of them do it.

"I think it's a wonderful idea," Dream interjects his thoughts, as if he knows. As if those kind eyes can peer into his brain and dissect his predictable thoughts. "Come on, George! You have straps now, you can stand up there and get your picture taken without having to hold your tank."

George scoffs and rolls his eyes. The peer pressure from two of his friends becomes too much to bear (not really, he would do anything for these two and stepping onto the rim of a fountain is the least he can do), and with the help of Dream's hand, he steps onto the stone of the fountain.

The world looks so much smaller from one foot off the ground. A grin erupts on his face; never has his feeble body felt so tall. So monumental, so important. He's finally taller than Sapnap up here, not by much, but it's something.

"How should I pose?" he asks almost teasingly while his two friends whip out their phones.

"However you want, George. It's your moment, after all." Dream gives him a big smile, one that's too big to hold the amount of happiness his body must contain.

In his moment, George smiles, a wide, cheesy one, while he hooks his thumbs under the straps of his oxygen tank, resembling an elementary school child being sent off to their first day of school. Just as pure, and just as terrifying. Sapnap and Dream snap the same picture of him, from slightly different angles, but the same nonetheless. He retrieves his own phone from his pocket and hands it to Dream, who instructs him to pose differently.

George ponders for a moment before forming a heart with his hands, right over his own heart. He smiles with his eyes closed, finding himself not caring how stupid he looks.

He looks at the trio of pictures, feeling his heart jump in his chest. Apart from the cannula connecting his nasal passage to his oxygen tank, he looks like a student, an average twenty-something-year-old. With his tank obstructed from view, it appears as if he's just some kid with a tube up his nose.

It makes his chest twist in a way that doesn't hurt for once.

Dream spends the night at their dorm. He eats peanut butter cracker sandwiches until there aren't any more left and there's a mountain of crumbs in the middle of their room. He chugs water to wash down said peanut butter cracker sandwiches while Sapnap helps himself to a can of alcoholic seltzer. George drinks water and a few apple slices, courtesy of Dream. Apparently there's an apple tree in his backyard, but that's no surprise to George.

At one point, Sapnap stands up and slings a backpack over his shoulder.

"Where are you going?" George asks him.

"Eh, a friend of mine asked if I wanted to stay over at his place," Sapnap tells him. "So I'm heading out. You can have my bed, Dream."

"Are you sure?" Dream asks even though he's already hopping onto Sapnap's bed.

"Yeah." Sapnap smirks, giving George one last all-knowing look before leaving them with a tiny goodbye and a wave.

Somehow, it's as if Dream hasn't sensed Sapnap's blatant intentions. Or, if he does, he makes no effort to show it.

With Sapnap gone, George finds it both easier and harder to breathe. Easier, because George always seems to breathe more easily whenever Dream is around and there's one less person to take up oxygen in the room. Harder, because it's Dream, and for whatever reason, George feels his lungs and heart pump air and blood at an accelerated rate, and he's pretty sure it's not because of the whole lungs turning to stone thing.

"So," Dream says, "whatcha wanna do for the rest of the night?" He checks his phone. "It's only midnight."

"Only," George drawls.

"Oh right, your bedtime was what, three hours ago?"

"I'm dying, okay? I sleep a lot."

George knows Dream isn't a huge fan of the "I'm dying" jokes, but to his surprise, Dream laughs. "Well, you're awake now. Do you want to go to sleep?"

"Not particularly, no."

"Good, 'cause neither do I!" Dream flashes a bright grin his way. "Um... we could watch some videos? Listen to some music?"

"I'm fine with either."

"Or! We could watch music videos!" Dream exclaims before pouncing onto George's bed without warning. Being that it's a twin-sized mattress and, George wasn't expecting the action, it certainly causes quite the jump in George's chest.

So that's how they end up watching music videos at midnight. Sharing a pair of tangled earbuds together, George plugs them in and places his laptop on both his and Dream's laps.

They're touching with how close they are, and as much as Dream steals George's breath away, having another human being in his personal bubble makes it almost effortless to breathe. George doesn't even know how that's possible, especially for someone like him.

George is on the outer end of the bed so his oxygen tank doesn't have to join them on the mattress. At one point, Dream rests his head on George's shoulder, his own breathing matching George's. Except Dream doesn't have a tube up his nose or a pair of shitty lungs. George tries not to think about that, though.

He's happy. He feels good. With Dream's even, sleep-filled breathing next to him, he feels good.

Dream's arms are crossed over his torso, bottom lip slightly jutted out. He sleeps soundly, a few strands of his black hair falling over his eyes. George has the urge to push it back.

He checks the clock. It's 1:24.

Figuring that Dream would actually want to sleep, George pauses the music video, which ironically only wakes up the sleeping boy. He mumbles something incoherent before sitting up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "What time is it?"

"Time for you to sleep," George answers.

Dream chuckles and yawns, squinting at the time on George's laptop. "Oh, it's only one-thirty?"

"Only? Sheesh, how late do you usually stay up?"

"I mean, if I don't have homework, then, like, four."

George's eyes nearly bug out of his head. "What? How do you even function?"

"I just don't need that much sleep, I guess," Dream says with a laugh. "Guess the songs put me to sleep, but you're also pretty warm, so that might be why too."

George can feel the hot blush on his face as he turns away so Dream won't see the shock in his eyes.

"If anything," Dream says, "you're the one who needs to sleep, George."

"Are you gonna leave me again?" George asks jokingly.

As if it isn't a joke, Dream doesn't laugh.

"No," he says sternly. "Unless you want me to."

"N-no! I mean, uh, no. I don't... want you to leave."

Breathe, George. It's just Dream.

"Then I won't leave," Dream says. He gets up from George's bed and slips into Sapnap's, and George wants to reach out to him and say wait, you can sleep in my bed if you want, but as if his cannula has coiled itself around his vocal cords, the words get trapped in his throat and his tongue dries up.

So he just watches as Dream gets into a bed that isn't his, watches as Dream falls asleep before him. His body moves up and down, inflating and deflating beneath the blanket. It's calming to watch, like listless ocean waves. George wishes his breathing was like that, instead of a roaring, furious tsunami.

Maybe then, he could actually sleep without drowning in his dreams.

❀ 

George could breathe once. It was a long time ago, so long ago and short-lived and insignificant that his memories of the time are fuzzy. He remembers when his lungs started their decline; he was thirteen, in P.E. class, when he was doing laps around the gym and something didn't feel right. He could easily do laps, he hadn't had any trouble doing them before. But he was heaving after one lap, feeling as if his breaths were cracking, stuttering as they made their way into his lungs.

He collapsed in the corner of the gymnasium, hands clutched to his chest as he pressed down on it, wheezing, "I can't breathe, please... help me-" Asthma was what they thought it was at first. Plenty of kids have it, apparently. But no amount of artificial air from an inhaler did the trick; George would still end up doubled over somewhere against the wall in an attempt to blend in with the background and shield himself from the confused looks of his peers.

When he was finally examined, when his body was processed through a giant tube that took pictures of the inner workings of it, he saw what looked like spider webs strung across the images of his lungs.

"Those are supposed to be there, right? There's all sorts of funky stuff in my body," George had said to his mother on the way back home. She stared at the road ahead, her face set in stone.

"No, honey," she'd said. "It's supposed to be black. Not white."

The doctors had said that they needed to run more tests to confirm what the condition was. His mother prayed to God that it wasn't lung cancer, but the actual diagnosis wasn't exactly much better.

Cancer can be treatable, maybe even curable, if it's caught early enough. Some people beat it altogether and it won't come back.

Pulmonary fibrosis is insidious. Treatable, yes. Curable, no. Once the damage is done, it's done.

And it never. Goes. Away.

The solution? Hide George away, where nothing could hurt him. Where he was safe from pathogens and dust and bacteria and germs and anything that could harm his lungs. It wasn't exactly his decision, but he was at the mercy of his parents and he was too tired to put up any sort of fight. The doctors encouraged George's parents to let him do some activity, to go out once in a while because cooping him up and shutting him in could actually harm him more than help him.

So on the occasion, George's parents would take him to go grocery shopping or out for a walk in the park, but that was about it.

The older George got, the worse his lungs got. The invisible spider in his lungs kept spinning its thread, coating the black in more white. Entanglements of scars and stone that weighed him down, took the breath and held it there. He was given his oxygen tank and cannula at fifteen.

Hospitalized for an entire year at sixteen. Released, then locked away again.

At some point, the sharp incline of the severity of his disease came to a flatline. Where the spider seemed to hibernate, or its threads became thinner. Whatever the case, George's lungs have been pretty shitty, but at least they've been stagnant for a while. Not getting better, but stable. Perhaps that was what helped George's mother in making the decision of sending him to university (along with the whole guilt trippy "I'm dying" card). He wasn't doing better, but he was doing fine.

Fine enough to live again, or at least try to, like he did before the spider was born, before that calamitous day. He wanted to, needed to. He couldn't allow himself to let the web turn to steel and hold him in his very own self-made straitjacket. He needed to live, as much as he could.

When George dreams, it's as if that day never existed.

When he sleeps, it's as if his dream self knows the cannula is still in his nose. That oxygen is still being poured into his lungs. But the dream self also still remembers what the time was like before that, when he could breathe without it. So now, he finds himself in a field of flowers, in a never ending dome of fresh air and sweet, sweet oxygen, cannula-less.

He runs. Petals fly in his wake and he takes in the lemony sky and the satin ground, knowing all too well that once his eyes open, all of it will be swallowed up by steel and hard-edged stone.

"George, do you want a new pair of lungs?"

"What? They can do that?"

"Yes. You'll have new lungs, somebody else's, but they'll work and you won't hurt anymore."

"Are you being truthful?"

Looking back, maybe she should have said yes.

❀ 

When George wakes up, he's, well, still alive. And there's still a lump in Sapnap's bed that's too small to be Sapnap.

He checks the alarm clock on the nightstand between the two beds. 9:32. He could definitely use some more sleep, but this is about as much as he can get. Once he's up, he's up.

Dream remains asleep, eyelids blissfully closed and skin glowing beneath the tangerine sun.

How peaceful he looks, George thinks. Like nothing plagues him, effortlessly beautiful and content.

He breathes so smoothly. George is mesmerized just watching another human being sleep.

He watches with the pang of envy and dread loud and monumental in his chest.

❀

"Can we go to the spring again?"

Dream looks up at him, lips perfectly closed around a straw to a blueberry smoothie (George got him hooked on them). "You wanna go back there?"

"Y-yeah. I really liked it."

Dream sighs. "George, the last time I took you there, you almost passed out on me."

"I wasn't going to pass out. I just got lightheaded."

"Well, whatever the case, it was still worrying. I can't take you there again."

"Come on, I have my straps now! I think I'll be okay now that I don't have to lug this thing with me like fucking luggage." George glances down at his tank that sits politely by his side, speechless, apart from the minute amount of noise it makes.

Dream sighs again, this time adding voice to it. And a smile. One that starts off small, but grows into the one George has come to know quite well. Wide and adventurous.

"Fine. If you really want to go back, I can take you back."

George smiles wide enough to match Dream's. He's just sure that Dream's looks ten times better than his.

❀ 

The journey through the woods is familiar. Somehow, George is able to remember the little details, notably the changes in the shades of green as they near the clearing. This time around, his lungs are a bit more functional and his muscles ache less. Whether it's actually due to his tank having straps now is unknown to him, but he isn't going to complain either way.

There's no way he can complain when he's greeted with the magnificent sight once more.

Under a sky that's both sunny and hazy at the same time, the oasis in the woods remains just as breathtaking (again, pun intended) as it is in his memory. With the fast-approaching onslaught of winter, the greenery somehow manages to stand out, the leaves barely having appeared to change color, unlike the leaves at the entrance to the woods.

And it's warm. Warmer than it is before the curtain of leaves. George actually has to take his jacket off.

"Well?" Dream says, stepping down the earth's shallow incline towards the spring. "Is it as magical as you remember it?"

"Yeah," George exhales, glancing around. He follows Dream down to the spring, where the scent of wet earth and flowers snake their way into his nostrils along with the oxygen from his tube. It's a pleasant humid feeling that George would probably normally dislike, but he finds himself at peace as he sits down, and the earth almost seems to shift to fit him. "Is Wilbur here?"

"Wilbur? O-oh, right, you met him." Dream's eyes meet the water, almost as if to search for the mysterious man. "Um, he could be."

"What exactly does he do here?"

"He, uh, bathes here sometimes," Dream says almost sheepishly, turning back to look at George.

"Is he homeless or something?"

"No, he's just... really in tune with nature."

George snorts. "Ah, I see, one of those people. Well, that's pretty cool. He's a little weird, but he seems nice."

"He's a little aloof for sure, but he's really kind once you get to know him," Dream says with a smile. "So anyway, tell me more about you."

"You'd think after a month of knowing each other you'd know everything there is to know about someone like me," George jokes, flattening his back against the ground. It's soft but not squishy. He could fall asleep here.

"Someone like you? Please don't tell me you're referring to your illness. I will personally chuck you into this spring if you are." Dream follows suit, laughing as he gets into position.

The rosy haze of the sky and the blanket of emerald leaves weaken the sun's harsh gleam, leaving just enough light for George to gaze comfortably upwards.

He smiles, cynicism pooling in his stomach. "Well, yeah. There isn't a lot to a sick person besides the fact that they're sick. Wait, I mean, there can be a lot to sick people besides the fact that they're sick, but I am not one of those people since I'm not exactly doing anything profound with my life."

"So?" Dream says, indignance present. "You don't have to do anything profound with your life, and that doesn't mean there isn't more to you than just your illness. You said you like to explore, or, you would if you could. Where would you want to go, George?"

"Everywhere and anywhere," George answers with a clear, heavy sigh. A few birds fly overhead.

Trees shake their leaves and they rustle in the breeze.

Everywhere and anywhere.

He would walk until his feet bled and his entire body turned to stone. Spend the money that his parents spent on his medical bills on going wherever he could to take pictures, to eat good food, experience the rich culture of wherever his mode of transportation took him. He'd go to fucking space if he could.

"Me too."

"Well, you can," George tells him.

"Doesn't mean I realistically can," Dream counters playfully. "Like yeah, I'd wanna travel a whole bunch and experience what the world has to offer, but shit costs money that I don't have."

"We can dream."

"That we can, Georgie." Dream chuckles at the same time a bird tweets and lands on his forehead.

"Shit!" George exclaims.

To his surprise, the bird doesn't budge. Don't birds usually fly away at any semblance of noise?

Dream glances up, the rest of his body unmoving. "Uh... Dream?"

"What?"

"You've got a bird on your forehead."

"Yeah, and?"

"Birds usually don't... land on people's foreheads."

Dream shrugs, the motion not perturbing the bird in the slightest. "This one does, apparently."

"Uh..." 

"Try touching it."

"Aren't they riddled with diseases?"

Dream smirks and shrugs again. "Why don't you find out?"

George hesitantly extends his arm, fingers loosely outstretched as they make their way towards the bird. The bird twitches as it cocks its head, its beak opening in a shrill, quick chirp before taking off, startling George but not Dream. In fact, Dream just grins, eyes shut.

"What the hell?" George says.

"What, George?"

"What, are you just some bird magnet or something?"

"I wouldn't say that." Dream chuckles. "The animals around here are just really friendly."

"Friendly... right."

Friendly, like Dream. Friendly, like mysterious stranger Wilbur and eerily perfect guardians Karl and Quackity.

Uh, hey, Dream, no offense but why is everything and everyone in your life so fucking weird?

Snap out of it, George. Don't scare him off. He genuinely likes you. Don't be an ass. You'll figure it out eventually, just keep your mouth shut and go along with it.

"So, George, what else would you do if you didn't have shit lungs?" Dream asks, grounding George back to reality.

"Uh... besides traveling? I don't know. I don't really think that far. I usually don't have the time or patience to sit and think about what I want to do with my time when most of it is spent just trying to breathe and not focusing on it hurting."

Dream groans and rolls over onto his stomach, closer to George. George startles a bit, swallowing nervously as Dream's face appears dangerously close to his.

"Okay, George. I'm going to ask you again. If you didn't have a pair of shit lungs, what would you do?

Don't even think about it. Just answer."

How could George think of an answer with this boy's face right up against his? His eyes are demanding, soft, but still demanding. Curious with a hint of scrutiny. If anything, George has to think, okay, George, Dream is right in front of your face and he smells really good. Like fruit and flowers, and you don't even know what flowers smell like because you don't spend time sniffing them. But he smells really good, and he's really close. Oh look, you're sweating. Breathe, George.

Breathe.

So he does.

Effortless.

No skips or stutters. Just a smooth flow of air, in and out. As if there is no tube, no tank, no obstruction whatsoever.

Dream is looking at him expectantly, his face having softened. He wears a small smile just as his default face seems to have all the time.

"I would... write."

"Write?"

George nods. "I'm majoring in literature. I like putting my thoughts down. I like writing about the things that go on around me. I like watching movies and TV and I always pay attention to the dialogue. So I think I would... do something with that."

Dream's smile grows like a flower.

"I like your answer, George. But you do realize that you can write with or without shit lungs, right?"

"I know, I know. But I can't get far with it, you know? I can't live long enough to be a famous screenwriter or a best-selling author, or-" George stops talking as soon as Dream frowns.

"You talk as if you're going to die tomorrow," he says.

"I very well could."

Dream sighs. "And I thought we were getting somewhere," he huffs, rolling back around.

Wait wait wait no come back, you smelled really good.

"You realize there's no age when it comes to that kind of thing, right? You'd be surprised with how much you can accomplish in a year or two." Dream turns his way and winks, sending a spark of something sweet and taunting down George's esophagus and into its stomach. "And before you say you could die tomorrow, you technically could say that every day, and would you look at that, you're still alive! Do you see how harmful it is, thinking as if tomorrow is your last day?"

George is aware of those not-so-motivational quotes. Healthy people who say that it's important to live each day as if it's your last. When he thinks about it, what does that even mean?

There's no instruction manual telling anybody how to live their lives. If someone wants to spend their last day on Earth on their living room couch eating popcorn and crying their eyes out instead of blowing millions and doing backflips on the Great Wall of China, who's to tell them not to?

If George wants to live each day and think as if tomorrow is his last, who's to tell him not to?

Well.

Not that Dream is telling him not to.

But Dream is basically telling him that staying inside of his oxygen-filled bubble while thinking that everything is pointless because he could die tomorrow is really infringing on his happiness.

"You were alive yesterday and you're alive today. You've been alive for what, twenty years?

Twenty-one? George, I think you've got a real bad prescription. You should get some new glasses.

I recommend rose-tinted ones. Hell, I'll even sign the check for them! At the bottom, in my fat fucking signature, bold letters and all, I'll sign 'reality.' How does that sound?"

❀ 

The minutes tick by in the form of rippling water. Chirping insects and tweedling birds. A breeze warm enough to be spring instead of autumn. George has his eyes closed; he might be asleep, he might not be. He's at peace now, breathing easily, so tranquil. His skin is goosebump-free, the earth plush against his back, softer than any memory foam he could ever rest his head upon. He can't remember ever being in such bliss.

If this is what heaven is, he surely wouldn't mind it. In fact, he'd really, really like it.

If this is what he gets to experience once he dies, he will welcome it with enthusiastically open arms.

"How do you feel, George?" Dream whispers.

"Amazing," George answers back. "Is this what being high feels like? I feel like this is what being high feels like."

"Could be. I've never been high before."

"Your guardians don't grow weed?"

"They could if they wanted to, but I think they'd rather not have police show up at their door."

Dream laughs. Trees rustle again. "I'm sure they can find some other mind altering substances to harvest though."

"Shrooms?"

"Bingo."

George laughs, laughs. Truly laughs. No holds barred. He clutches his stomach, imagining those two perfect human beings tripping on shrooms, their dainty little house spinning on a pottery wheel, psychedelic colors and shapes undulating around it.

"What's so funny about shrooms?" Dream asks, his own voice shrill with laughter.

"Funny," George says to himself, gasping to catch his breath. It comes easily. "Oh, god, why are shrooms so funny?"

"George, you okay? You need some extra oxygen?"

George laughs again, and that's the thing, he doesn't. He doesn't need some extra oxygen.

His stomach hurts from laughing, but his lungs feel fine. He's able to come down from the high, the high of laughter, something that he hasn't had enough of in the time his lungs haven't been lungs.

"I'm okay," he says, taking a few more deep breaths to collect himself. "I'm very, very okay."

Dream breaks out into another smile. It spreads out like a garden across his face.

"That's good, Georgie. That's very, very good."

❀ 

When the two get back to the clearing, the sun is just about to spread orange across the fading sky.

Dream leaves George with a suggestion.

"You go back to your dorm and write something, okay?" he says. "We can do, like, a writing exchange or something! I'm not really a good writer, so I think this will really benefit the both of us."

"What are you thinking, exactly?"

"I write something, you write something. A poem, a story, a letter. Whatever. Write whatever you wanna write. And then next time we see each other, we'll read what we have and give feedback.

Or not. We could just read each other's shit."

"Why are you suggesting this?" George is cautious to ask the question innocuously.

"Because when you're studying to do something you wanna do, chances are you won't get to do what you wanna do whilst studying it," Dream says. "You'll have to write a bunch of essays you don't wanna write and read books you don't wanna read. And it's not like, homework or anything. You don't have to do it. I'm just merely suggesting it because you might not get another opportunity like this in the future, George." He winks.

George swallows the "I might not have a future" and nods instead.

"Okay."

"Great!" Dream beams. "I hope you write something, because I know I'm going to!"

George laughs. "I will, don't worry."

"Cool. Hey, text me, okay?" Dream points a finger. "I'm not letting you go again, George."

"Whatever you say," George says with a roll of his eyes.

"Oh, and here." Dream suddenly grabs one of George's wrists and pulls his arm up. "Open."

George opens his hand, and in his palm, Dream places a bulb of tiny white flowers, close together as if sewn. Like the head of a cattail, but white instead. "Found this while you were sleeping. Put it in a glass of water and make sure you look at it when you write about me, okay?"

"Who says I'm gonna write about you?" George mocks, though he closes his fingers gently around the flowers and ignores the sudden increased magnitude of his heartbeat. He lowers his arm.

"A little birdie," Dream quips, winking.

"Just for that, I'm not going to write about you."

"Well, maybe not tonight. But you will write about me someday."

"Someday. Right."

Dream snickers and starts walking backwards, not once turning back to face away from George.

"Behave, now," he says.

"Tell that to my lungs!"

"Behave, George's lungs!"

Dream is getting farther away again. He's waving. He waves for a long time.

George is the one who eventually looks away, down at the delicate mini-bouquet of flowers Dream had bestowed, and when he looks back up, Dream has his back turned, hands in his pockets, as his form disappears into the dusk.

❀

How to Get High Without Doing Drugs: a Revelation by George, Shitty Lungs Expert Go outside. Make sure to bring yourself. Bring a friend, if you want.

Lie down on the grass. Make sure it's good grass, though.

Close your eyes. Breathe, or at least try to. Try not to focus on if it hurts or not. Just do it, if you can.

Smile. Smile, even if it hurts to do so. Think about nothing. Don't think. Keep thinking about nothing. Nothing. Nada. Blackness. Actually, not even blackness. Straight up nothingness.

Then pick a word. A word that you think sounds funny. Laugh at it. Keep laughing. Laugh until whatever was hurting you before is still there, but doesn't hurt as much. Until your stomach hurts.

Until you feel a good kind of pain that isn't really pain.

People say that "laughter is the best medicine." After today, I kind of have to agree.

I laughed at the word 'shrooms' for longer than one normally would. I don't know why it was so funny to me. But I did, and I usually can't laugh for too long, or that hard, because my lungs will start to hurt too much and I might start coughing.

However, I am a minority. Most people can breathe. So, laugh. Laugh at a word, laugh at nothing, laugh at a funny joke. Find something to laugh at and let yourself laugh. Remember the feeling.

The feeling of being high.

❀ 

George doesn't own a glass, but Sapnap does have a shot glass that's big enough to fit the stem of the flower. He spends a good five minutes on the poem (how-to guide, whatever it would be classified as) and writes it down on a piece of college-ruled paper. Sapnap's on his bed, laptop in front of him.

"That's a nice flower, where'd you get it?"

"Dream and I hung out today. Went for a walk. He said he found it and wanted me to have it."

"Aww, that's cute," Sapnap coos, followed by a few kissy sounds.

"Don't make me slap you with my tank."

"That wouldn't be good for either one of us now, would it?"

George scoffs and glances down at the tank. He pats the top of it.

"Hey, Sapnap," he says, "have you ever done drugs?"

"Uh... why?"

"What's it like being high?"

Sapnap chuckles. "Well, I don't do it often since it's not readily available, but yeah, I've smoked weed before. It depends on the person and the weed you smoke, but I personally get really happy.

Really giggly. I start laughing at nothing, probably do something stupid. I feel both light and heavy at the same time. It's a nice time."

"Can I watch you get high sometime?"

"Where are all these questions coming from?" Sapnap asks, amused more than anything else.

"You're not smoking weed, not on my watch."

"I know. I just think, like, if I can't experience it for myself, I'd want to see others experience it, you know? Techno came over one night and got wine tipsy. So like, if you ever get high, let me know so I can watch."

"Alright, George."

"Thanks."

George looks back down at his work and thinks about Sapnap's description. It sounds about right.

❀ When George wakes up the next morning, the soft hum of his oxygen tank and the radiator in their room makes for a blend of cacophonous noise that is harsh against his eardrums.

The sounds are only loud when- It starts off small. Most of the time, it does. It starts off piano, crescendos into forte, then to double fortissimo, until George is curled in on himself and Sapnap is jolting out of bed and joining him at his side with his water bottle ready for whenever he stops coughing.

"George, are you sure you don't need to go to the doctor?" Sapnap asks once he's done.

George gulps down the water. It sloshes in his stomach but not his lungs. It doesn't moisten the cracks or make them slippery. Nothing that'll help him breathe, but it makes his throat hurt less.

"It's normal," George says.

Normal for someone who has the disease, sure. Normal for someone who doesn't, absolutely not.

George can only imagine how Sapnap feels. It's not even eight in the morning, and he's already had to wake up to the sound of his roommate's alarming coughing episode.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"Please don't be," Sapnap replies, almost pleading. "Don't be sorry for something you can't control."

It could be controlled, George thinks, if I or whoever else has control of me would pull the plug already.

❀

"A side effect of dying?"

"That's what the narrator says."

"Is the narrator dying?"

"You mean the author?"

"Yeah."

"No, I don't think so."

"Then he doesn't get to say that."

Dream snorts, closing the bright blue book. "I read this back in middle school and thought it was the most profound thing. I mean, technically you could say we're all dying, but you're just on another degree of dying."

"Another degree of dying. Sounds like a cool name for a novel," George inputs, nodding. "I mean, it's a nice book and all, but it just doesn't really sit well with me."

"Don't get me wrong, I think there are some really valuable messages in it. I just thought I would share the whole 'depression is a side effect of dying' thing because you, well, you know."

"I'm cynical, I get it," George says.

"Well... yeah. Would you say you're depressed too?"

George makes a face and shrugs. "I don't think so, no. Besides, if depression is a side effect of dying and we're all dying to some degree, wouldn't that make everyone depressed?"

"What if we're all different degrees of depressed?" Dream suggests.

George's eyes widen. "Wow."

Dream flips his midnight hair and sighs. "Call me a genius."

"You're a genius."

"Thank you."

They're at the dining hall near George's dorm. George doesn't tell Dream about his coughing fit from a few days ago. He hasn't had one since, so he's fine. He's been fine.

"Are you sad a lot, George?" Dream asks.

George shrugs.

"I don't want to say depression is a side effect of dying, but it is real fucking difficult to be happy when your body knows it's not going to last as long as the person next to you."

George glances up at a few students that pass by. They're all oxygen tank-less, young with bright clothing and probably bright futures. They have mostly clear skin and healthy physiques. They're the ones who will outlive him, as will ninety-nine percent of the whole school, probably.

"To answer your question, no, I don't think I'm sad or depressed. I just think differently, in a way that most people would see as sad or depressed because I'm, well, you know."

Dream nods, acknowledging him with a hum. "Well, let's see your poem. You wrote one, right?"

"Yeah." George reaches down to his backpack to pull out the piece of paper (now slightly crumpled) he'd written his how-to guide on. "Did you write one?"

"Of course I did," Dream says defensively, plucking out a carefully folded piece of paper from his jean pocket. "Now read."

In a dramatic exchange, the two hand their papers to each other. George unfolds it meticulously.

Dream's handwriting is atrocious.

10 Things I Hate About Choi George "What the fuck, Dream?"

Dream giggles mischievously. "Just read."

George groans and finds the scrawl again.

10 Things I Hate About George 

1: He's so fucking set on dying, man. How can one be so sure of what's going to happen tomorrow? For all we know, I could be the one who dies tomorrow, not him.

2: It took him so goddamn long to get straps for his tank. That must mean he's indecisive, a procrastinator, lazy, or all three.

3: He thinks his illness is all there is to him. You realize there's a whole human being surrounding those lungs, right?

George smiles.

4: He TALKS like his illness is all there is to him. Tell me your hopes and dreams, George. Not the hypothetical ones that exist only if your lungs were healthy. Not the ones you wish you could achieve if they were realistic. Tell me ALL of them.

5: He walks really slow, but I accredit that to his defective lungs so I give him a pass on that one.

The rest of the page is blank.

"Uh, Dream," George says, flipping the page. "There aren't ten things on this list."

"I know," Dream responds, not lifting his eyes from George's. "I said I'd write something, but I didn't say I'd finish it. I need to find more things to hate about you."

In a bout of lighthearted annoyance, George folds the paper over and over, until he can't possibly form any more creases, and chucks it at Dream's head. He doesn't even bat an eyelash.

A few seconds later, Dream finally nods and hands George's work back. "I like it. Did you like mine?"

"Sure," George says, picking up his page and folding it and tucking it back into his bag. "Except it wasn't finished."

"And I reiterate, I didn't say I would finish," Dream argues, sticking his tongue out.

"Sheesh, Dream, how old are you?"

"Plot twist, George, I'm a nine-year-old stuck in a twenty-year-old's body."

And honestly, with the strangeness surrounding Dream's life, George wouldn't be entirely surprised.

❀ 

George goes to his regularly scheduled appointment. It's the third one he's been to since he's started university.

It's a wash, rinse, repeat cycle. Check vitals. Weigh him. Draw blood. Listen to how shitty his lungs sound. Get his oxygen tank checked out. Ask him standard questions.

"How are you adjusting to university?" is a new one.

"It's going well."

"Make any new friends?"

"Yeah, they're really supportive."

"That's good."

And of course, she tells George to let the clinic know that if there's anything he needs or if anything changes, to call them. George smiles and nods.

George takes the bus back to campus. It smells like metal and something musty, and he stares down at the silver specks of the platform and thinks about flowers instead.

❀ 

George gets his image scans in the mail a few days later, at his own request. He wants to start hanging them up in his room on a clothespin string, to display the progression of his disease (or, lack thereof). He even gets the ones from before. When he puts them side-by-side, he doesn't see much of a difference, but then again, he's no doctor.

He looks at the images and breathes and tries to feel each and every white particle. The air just seems to settle in his lungs, not spread like it's supposed to, before he ultimately forces it back out.

It feels like a clog. A massive clog that no plunger can remove.

When Sapnap sees them for the first time, he winces. "Jesus, George... I'm no expert in radiology but even I can tell this isn't good."

"When I was younger, I thought the white was supposed to be there," George says bitterly. "Wishful thinking, I guess."

"You're a miracle, George. I just hope it doesn't get any whiter."

George hopes so too.

Dream comes over on a Friday night. Sapnap is out again and there are four images on George's wall. Dream looks at them for several minutes completely silent, while George sits on Sapnap's bed and twiddles his thumbs.

"All that shit's in you, huh?" Dream mumbles.

"Yeah. I'm sure if you take my lungs out and look at them they'd look ten times worse."

"Color tends to make things worse." Dream smirks. "Well, depends on how you look at it, I guess. Color certainly makes things more exciting."

"Yeah."

George glances over at his workspace on the desk. There sits Sapnap's shot glass, half filled with water, and the white flower has disappeared.

Wait.

The white flower is gone.

Just like the rose. Just like the azalea.

George had been too preoccupied to notice. Unless Sapnap took it out, which George doubts he did, then it should still be there.

"What's wrong?" Dream asks.

"Just... ah, I thought I put your flower in that glass right there." George points at it. "I didn't take it out... maybe it was Sapnap."

"Ah."

An uneasy feeling shoots up his chest.

Why isn't the flower there anymore?

"It should... be there..." Why isn't it there anymore? Why did that rose disappear between my fingers? Where did the azalea go?

Sweat erupts from the pores on his hairline.

Dream- "H-hey, George, you alright?"

"Yeah," George says. It comes out as a weak gasp.

No, please, not now. Not now.

He grips the edge of Sapnap's bed, his swollen fingertips numb and throbbing at the same time. He inhales through his mouth, or tries to, but the air gets lodged in his throat, and he coughs. And coughs.

Starts off small.

His fingers feel like they could bleed. There's pressure everywhere, from the tips and bends of his body, to the innards and blood in his system; the air is going in but it's not coming out.

Breathe, George. Breathe. Breathe.

He coughs again, and the scale tips to one side. The rocks in his lungs crash together, sparking, igniting, knocking against the delicate tissue and sending metallic lava up his throat. It tastes unpleasant.

"George, h-hey-" "Don't... d-don't t-touch me!"

"George, please!"

There are hands encapsulating his wrists, prying them off of his chest. He needs them there, he needs to hold it, needs to hold the breath there. He can't do it if Dream's trying to move them, he- There's something against his feverish forehead, gentle puffs of air against his lips as he coughs.

He coughs. And coughs.

And breathes. And breathes.

Breathe.

"Breathe, George. Breathe for me, okay?"

Dream's hands cup his face, his supple skin so close, flowery scent wrapping around him once more.

George inhales through his nose. He can smell it again, smell the oasis, smell Dream. He exhales through his mouth, it doesn't hurt, it flows out without getting caught in the cracks.

Dream coughs, and George opens his eyes. They hurt from being clamped shut.

"Dream-" Dream coughs again, removing his hands from George's face and instead shielding his mouth as he lets out another cough into them. He holds him there, much like George would hold his hands at his chest.

"Dream?" George tries.

He breathes. In and out.

It's easy again. Just like it was at the oasis. Just like it was when George saw Dream just a few ways away, bent down at a flower, smiling.

Dream's eyes are closed, hands cupped over his nose and mouth, but nothing, nothing could shroud the delicate blue light traveling up his neck. George can't tell where it starts, but he watches it appear from beneath his shirt collar, up his neck, over his jaw and cheek, and- "Dream?"

When the boy finally removes his hands from his face, a pale blue flower with two leaves at its sides rests in his palms. He swallows, clears his throat, then swallows again. George's mouth drops wide open.

"Dream... what's that? What did you do?"

George gawks at him with wide, panicked eyes, his gratefulness still present but merely simmering in his vocal cords. Right now, he's looking at this flower, the size of one of Dream's palms, that has seemingly appeared from nowhere.

Dream chuckles sheepishly.

"Ah, it's... oh man, I should really just tell you, huh? I think it's about time I did."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George is one who believes in second chances; it's just that he's too far gone to get his. His lungs are practically turning to stone, and without an oxygen tank and a tube in his nose, he may as well be dead on the floor.
> 
> One fateful night, he meets Dream, a mysterious boy with a strange affinity for nature, whose world is a little more than supernatural. It's magical.
> 
> (This is a story with VERY long chapters, filled with angst, sadness, and things related to that. tread carefully, but enjoy!!)

"A fairy."

"Yup."

"You're... a fairy."

"Uh-huh."

"Like. Those little woodland creatures with wings."

"Uh... minus the wings. And hey, I'm literally taller than you."

George stares at Dream incredulously, eyebrows knitted together in utter confusion.

"Fairies come in all shapes and sizes. Some have wings," he continues on. "Karl and Quackity are fairies too."

Well, that totally explains it. It explains how oddly cottagecore their house is, how they look otherworldly perfect despite being who-knows-how-many years older than Dream. Even the photos that, looking back on it, look like they were taken in completely different eras. Their old-fashioned mannerisms, the way that they speak, their strange affinity for nature.

The fact that they're fairies explains everything!

"Uh... huh."

It's getting hard to breathe again. Reality crashing down is a heavy weight on George's lungs.

He looks at the flower sitting prettily in the palms of Dream's hands, back up at Dream, then back at the flower. The light emanating from his throat became... that?

How else could George begin to explain such a phenomenon?

"So... that flower..." 

"Oh, this. Yeah. It's a power of mine. I can create flowers." Dream smiles as he hands it out for George to take. Hesitantly, he does. "But what just happened was something different. That flower is more of a product of conversion."

"Conversion?"

Dream nods. "So... you were having a coughing attack, yeah? And I used my power to stop it, but during the process, energy is released and my body produces a flower. It's random, like, you never know what flower would come out."

George runs his thumbs along the petals, smooth and dainty. It feels like it weighs nothing.

"Look, George, seriously. Please don't tell anybody about me or Karl and Quackity. Humans don't know we exist. We kind of live among you guys as equals, and we don't want to be found out."

"Wait wait wait, what about Wilbur? That guy in the spring? Is he one too?"

"Oh, him." Dream giggles. "He's a water nymph. Completely different. There are a lot of fae creatures out there, not just fairies."

"So do vampires and werewolves exist?"

All amusement drains from Dream's face at the question. "What? It's a valid question when you find out that fairies exist," George says defensively, shrugging.

Dream sighs, a soft smile reappearing. "Well, if they do, I'm unaware. The fae realm consists of fairies, nymphs, pixies, shapeshifters, things like that. Though you can't see pixies because they're basically microscopic, and nymphs are masters of camouflage. As for shapeshifters... you never know if they're walking around."

George stares blankly as the confusion simmers in him. He's trying to wrap his head around it. As much as he wants to tell Dream that everything he just told him is insane and impossible because fairies don't fucking exist, then what was the scene that just unfolded before him? He can't think of any human explanation for that light in Dream's throat, or how the flower appeared out of nowhere.

"Prove it," George requests.

"Huh?"

"Prove it... again. I... I know that what just happened can't really be scientifically explained but I need more than that."

Dream lets out a snorting laugh, shaking his head as he holds out his right hand. "Here. See if you can explain this."

The veins in Dream's palm almost seem to glow, a golden light instead of blue. It starts from his wrists, branching out to the rest of the lines in his hand like roots of a tree, and George expects a flower to magically appear from the light, but instead, the gold fades into a dark brown, an almost eerie sight. As if Dream's veins darken to become the roots themselves.

And from those roots sprouts a flower from the center of his hands. First the leaves, and then the body, which looks similar to the blue one, just gold instead. The dark roots inside his hand fade, and he plucks the flower from the center. There's a black dot left on his skin where the flower bloomed.

Dream hands George the flower with a proud smirk. "So? You wanna explain that to me?"

George can't deny it. He's holding two very real, live flowers that Dream created straight from his body.

"H-how? How do you... what is..." Dream chuckles. "I'm sure you have a lot of questions. I can try to answer them all."

So George asks about all the abnormalities he's witnessed since he's met Dream, starting with the very first sight. Dream, kneeling by a flower, seemingly immersed in it.

Nature speaks a language, apparently. An unspoken one, one without words or letters or syllables, one that Dream can't even begin to explain. But he can converse with nature—plants, animals, anything alive. He understands them, and they understand him. In the simplest terms, he can talk to plants and animals.

Fairies do not age. Karl and Quackity being walking proof of that, at two hundred years old. George's mouth drops wide open at that. It explains their old-fashioned mannerisms and taste in interior decorating and the old photographs, but holy shit. They're two hundred years old.

"Then how old are you?" George asks.

"Twenty. Really." Dream snickers. "And yes, the story about Karl and Quackity finding me in a basket is very true. I was abandoned by my real parents, whoever they are. Don't know, don't really care. But Karl and Quackity found me, recognized me as being one of their kind, and took me in."

"How do fairies even obtain citizenship?"

"Fairies are everywhere, George. They're in healthcare, governments, you name it. Humans may not know about fairies, but fairies know about other fairies and help with the assimilation of both kinds."

Government officials who can give names, statuses, birth certificates, and anything that fairies would need to live amongst humans. The notion is mind-boggling. To think, there could be a fairy running a country.

"So... Do fairies die?" George asks. "Do they... get sick?"

Dream shakes his head. "Fairies don't get sick, but they can die, yes. From extremely old age, or, like, having their heads cut off. But because fairies have exceptional healing capabilities, they're really hard to kill."

"Healing abilities, huh?"

When George thinks about it... maybe Dream's presence is the reason he can breathe so easily.

A natural healing aura, Dream calls it. Where organisms surrounding him are soothed, put at bay. He even says he can bring small organisms back from the dead, though it does take up a substantial amount of energy to do so.

"Can't bring back a rotting corpse," Dream says. "But say, if a small plant dies, I can restore it to its healthiest state. I can bring back dead bugs, really tiny animals, things like that. Though, like I said, it takes up energy, so I need a really good nap after doing that."

Makes sense, George thinks. He can imagine it's no easy feat to bring something back from the dead.

"Any more questions?" Dream asks.

Just one.

"What were the flowers saying to you, the night we met?"

A reminiscent smile spreads on Dream's face.

"They were saying, look to your left, Dream. There's your new friend."

❀ 

And so, George starts the portion of his life that involves keeping Dream's secret under wraps. It's not difficult, really; his friendships with Sapnap and Techno don't really involve explaining strange occurrences since everything about Dream is very human despite him being able to create life from his hands. Really, it's not that bad.

The trees have inevitably changed color, but that doesn't stop Dream from taking George down those winding paths, orange and red and brown crackling beneath their feet as they walk.

Sometimes Dream will bring blankets for them to wrap themselves up in, and he'll spread one out so they can lie beneath the setting sun, listening to the trickling of water.

"You know," Dream says one day. He has his hands positions behind his head, back against the ground, legs bent. "I was looking up your condition. Pulmonary fibrosis."

"Yeah?" George almost laughs.

"The life expectancy is three to five years, George. Did you know that?"

George chews the inner lining of his lips.

"The life expectancy with pulmonary fibrosis varies. It is possible to slow the progression of the disease with proper treatment."

"B-but can't something be done? Something more long-term?"

"A lung transplant, but of course, it comes with risks. There is no way of telling how George's body will react, if it will reject the new lungs or the treatments that proceed the operation. And with new lungs, George will have to be on suppressants for the rest of his life, which may also come with complications that could potentially harm his body in other areas. However, with all of that being said, plenty of patients who undergo lung transplants can live a healthy life after the procedure, more than just three to five years."

"But there's no guarantee."

"Unfortunately, Mr. NotFound, no. There is no guarantee with any disease."

"Don't believe everything the internet tells you," George mumbles.

Dream shifts to his side, looking in George's direction. "How long have you been living with it?"

"Since I was thirteen, about."

Dream's eyes widen. "George, that's seven years."

"Well, yeah."

"You're a walking miracle."

George rolls his eyes and thinks of when Sapnap had told him the same thing. A miracle.

No, if George were truly a miracle, he could breathe properly and change the world.

"Treatment slows the progression of the disease. That's why I have my handy dandy tank and take a bunch of medication. Plus, I'm still young. Life expectancy isn't just three to five years for someone like me."

"See, there's some optimism!" Dream exclaims brightly, rolling over until his arm brushes with George's and his face is mere inches away. George's breath hitches in his throat at the sudden closeness. "I mean... I'm glad to hear that your life expectancy isn't just three to five years..." George sighs. "Do you see now why I talk as if I'm gonna die soon? Because really, I could. I'm gonna die before you, obviously, and I'm gonna die before Sapnap and Techno. This disease is going to kill me and nothing can stop it. Not even a lung transplant."

"Why don't you get one?" Dream asks.

"My mom was too uncertain," George says. "Everybody was. My condition isn't, like, so severe to the point where I would need one immediately. I'd be put on a waiting list, and who knows how long that could take? I don't know, Dream. At the time, there were so many words being thrown at me and I was so scared and didn't know what to do, and neither did my parents, so... ultimately, they just decided to stick with regular treatments to slow the progression."

Dream makes a face, something between horror and disgust. "If a lung transplant would save your life, why not get one?"

"Because it might not, Dream."

"Well it might. There are two sides to every coin, you know." Dream huffs and flips back onto his back, and George finds himself wishing he hadn't opened his mouth.

To stop being so cynical. Because Dream isn't; Dream is the embodiment of sunshine and the sun itself, there even when it's not there, omnipresent, hot and blinding. George may as well be made of stone in comparison.

"Don't you give up on me," Dream says, quieter this time.

George sighs. I gave up a long time ago, he wants to say. Because yes, he knows that he can go for it, he can apply to get a lung transplant and wait however long he needs to and risk his body rejecting a new pair of lungs in favor of living with the ones he already has. He knows that he can try, try to fight, try to live his best life with the cards he's been dealt, but no matter what, he will always be a walking example of disease, medicated and reliant, and that is something he never wanted to be in the first place.

So what is worse: to die, or to live in constant uncertainty?

George doesn't let himself think about that too much.

So he replies with, "Alright," knowing how half-assed it sounds and how Dream is probably going to see right through him. But Dream doesn't say anything else, because he knows George is too cynical for his own good.

"Life is beautiful," Dream whispers to the crisp autumn wind.

He holds out his palm and conjures a violet flower with dozens of rows of small, dainty petals, circled around the golden-white center. And he offers it to George, just like every other flower.

"Quackity made that azalea for you, you know."

"What flower is this?" George asks, twirling the tiny stem around in his hand.

Dream shrugs. "Beats me. I don't know the names of flowers."

"You're kind of a shitty fairy," George jokes.

"Trust me, I know." Dream still cracks a smile.

They stay at the oasis until sundown, and then they trudge back to civilization where Dream takes George back to his house. It feels bigger upon entering; maybe Karl and Quackity did some refurbishing or rearranging or maybe George got smaller. They're in the kitchen cooking up a storm, a familiar sight to George's eyes. Upon Dream and George's entrance, they turn and smile.

Before they can say anything, however, Dream blurts, "George knows we're fairies."

Their smiles disappear. Quackity lets out a heavy sigh, Karl makes a disgruntled noise and turns back to chopping vegetables on the cutting board.

"We will talk later, Dream," Quackity says, his voice low and firm. "Is George staying for dinner?"

"Um... if it's okay?" Dream tries.

And just like that, Quackity is smiling again, soft and subtle. He nods and Dream claps with glee, taking George's hand and tugging him along.

"Now that you have your straps, I wanna show you where all the magic happens. Literally."

"George—" Karl interjects.

"Karl, he already knows we're fairies. Him seeing the apothecary isn't going to change anything," Dream argues, already opening the door that leads to the downstairs area he refused to take him down before.

George is instantly overwhelmed with the earthy aroma of herbs upon reaching the bottom step. It's considerably warmer, the environment being basically the equivalent of a greenhouse. Wooden shelves line every single wall, potted plants dangle from hangers strung to the ceiling, vibrant green leaves spilling everywhere. Glass bottles containing multicolored liquids sit upon the shelves along with various gardening tools.

In the center of the left section of the basement-apothecary is a massive pot, something like a cauldron, the ones George has only seen in movies. It's empty, its big black pit spotless. In the corner is a miniature garden dug into the ground, tiny stems and leaves poking out from the crumbly soil.

And the right section of the basement is what looks to be more of a library, the shelves containing seemingly endless rows and columns of dusty books instead of glass vials and bottles. There's a table in the middle, a pile of books stacked high and a few scientific instruments strewn about randomly.

"This is the apothecary. Karl and Quackity make potions down here. Herbal mixes infused with fairy magic that are used for a whole bunch of things. You know that tea Quackity made you? It was one of the potions from down here. Magic tea."

"Do you know what it was for?"

"Exactly what Quackity told you it was for. Strength. Most potions are used for that sort of thing.

Vitality, fertility, energy, even weight loss!"

"Do they sell these potions?"

Dream nods. "Yup! Only the really weak ones are sold on the human market, though. The stronger ones are reserved for fairies themselves. If you wanna think about it like this, it's like drug dealing. Just not illegal."

George laughs at that. "Fairies come in all sorts," Dream continues. "Powers vary and come with time and experience. Karl and Quackity are fairly old, so their powers are great. While healing is a power shared among all fairies, only some are able to condense their magic into physical concoctions like potions."

"Is that what you're doing to me, Dream?" George asks. "Healing me?"

"You could say that," Dream says nonchalantly. "It's my natural healing aura, what can I say?" He grins widely. "I can't condense my power like they can, though. I have my aura, and then I have my healing power and very limited resurrection power."

"This is nuts."

Dream only smiles. "No, George, this is an apothecary."

George snorts and swats at Dream's shoulder, shaking his head in mock offense as he ascends the stairs again, effortlessly.

❀ 

Dinner is awkward, to say the least, because now George knows their secret when he's not supposed to. He wonders if there are any humans, any at all, that know about the existence of fairies. He can't be the only one.

To make up for it, he stuffs himself until he can't eat anymore. It's not a difficult feat, considering their cooking is phenomenal (whether it's courtesy of fairy magic or not, George isn't sure). He leans back and lets out a heavy, sharp exhale as his digestive system starts chipping away at the food, which isn't much in comparison considering his appetite isn't exactly up there, but he's certain they can tell.

"So, George," Quackity says, his voice much more solemn this time around. "I'm sure Dream has told you this already, but it is crucial that you don't tell anybody about us or the existence of fairies."

George nods. "Of course."

"The Fairy Council doesn't want to get involved in human affairs as much as possible. If word gets out, technically something can be done, but it requires massive amounts of magic and energy that shouldn't have to be used in the first place."

"Like... a mass memory wipe? Is that something fairies can do?"

"Our magic itself doesn't. However, our magic combined with other elements from nature can ensure memory erasure, but of course, that comes with the risk of wiping too much." Quackity sighs. "As far as I know, the Council hasn't had to resort to that. We keep our powers under wraps very well."

George briefly glances over at Dream, who's pushing around roasted vegetables with his fork, eyes down and head slumped. "I won't tell anyone, I promise," George says with as much conviction as he can muster.

He forgoes the immediate cynical thought that invades his head.

"Dream trusts you, so we are inclined to trust you as well," Karl says, tone similar to Quackity's. He gives George a reassuring smile, less solemn than Quackity's overall demeanor.

"But enough about that. How have you been, George?"

George shrugs. "Nothing much has changed. My lungs are still crappy. Still take loads of medication for it. School is okay."

"But your condition has not worsened?"

"It's been pretty stable. Has been for a while. I get the occasional coughing episode but that's a normal occurrence."

Karl's face suddenly lights up. "Ah, I believe I have something for that! I'll be right back."

He gets up and disappears down the hall, and George hears the familiar creaking of wood as he descends the stairs. He returns with a normal plastic water bottle with a rose gold liquid inside that almost seems to shimmer. "This potion will help soothe your symptoms when they occur."

"Karl, that's—" "Only one sip is all it takes." Karl cuts Quackity off, still smiling as he hands the bottle to George.

George side-glances Quackity, who's watching the scene with apprehensive eyes. "Uh..." "It's not poisonous," Quackity confirms. "But it is one of our more complex potions that takes a long time and a lot of magic to make."

George's mouth falls open. "Oh, gosh, I couldn't take it then—" "I insist." Karl urges the bottle into George's hands. "We have a few more bottles downstairs.

It's fine."

"They sell fast," Quackity mumbles, then sighs. "Well, if Karl insists."

George looks at Dream again. He has discomfort written all over him.

In the end, George accepts the gift, tucking it into the side pocket of his tank pack. Hopefully Sapnap doesn't find it and thinks it's alcohol.

Later that night, while Karl explains the apothecary in more depth, showing George around and pointing out all the knick-knacks and potions linine the shelves, Quackity and Dream remain upstairs, having that "talk." Karl made sure to close the door, muffling the voices on both ends.

"I have a question," George says.

"Yes?"

"Dream told me that you and Quackity are two hundred years old."

Karl laughs at that, sucking in air through his teeth. "Ah, yes. He likes to remind us that we're ancient, yet there are fairies who are a thousand years old out there. But yes, Quackity and I are around that age."

"How did you two meet?"

"Way back when, fairies had covens," Karl says. "In other words, they lived together, in clusters exclusively reserved for fairies. But as time went on and more fairies were born, it became more and more difficult to stay hidden from the human world, which was when the Council decided to disperse the covens and send fairies to live amongst humans. Quackity and I met during the pandemonium and the uncertainty of it all. We came from different covens, practically orphaned at a relatively young age... twenty-one, perhaps? But fairies can sense other fairies, which is how we came to know each other."

George smiles and thinks about the two and how much they must have been through together. "So that's how you knew Dream was a fairy from the get-go."

"Indeed. It was such a peculiar sight, and a foolish, risky decision on the parents' part. It was fortunate that we were the ones who discovered him. Who knows what would have happened if Dream grew up in a human family? He wouldn't know the extent of his power or how to use it. It was good we were there to guide him."

George pauses for a moment and ponders the original question he had in mind, but it slips right out of him.

"What has it been like, living for so long?"

And as if Karl could sense the intent behind the question, his face falls flat. "George..." "I want to know," George says, devoid of emotion, because this is what he's used to.

The cynicism of it all, the impending doom, and the curiosity of life that he won't get to live.

Karl's lips flatten as he sighs. "Well, if you truly wish to know... Quackity and I have been together since we were about twenty-one. We've traveled the world. Been to every continent minus Antarctica. Quackity can speak fifteen languages. We've lived through wars. Seen things destroyed and built. There is a lot that can happen in one lifetime, let alone two."

George nods, trying to imagine it all. What life must have been like for someone with the same disease as him without the technology to mitigate it. The life expectancy must have been a lot less than three to five years.

He may be fortunate to live this long, in this day and age. But that doesn't stop his inevitable fate.

"Since fairies were thrown into the human world... our population has declined," Karl mumbles. "Not so much to the point that we are near extinction, but the fairy race is certainly lesser in number. It is difficult to kill a fairy, but not impossible." George winces, thinking of the wars he learned about in history class. "Finding Dream was like finding treasure. We are lucky to have him. I'm sure you feel the same."

George can't help but chuckle, and he smiles again because yes, he is lucky.

Very, very lucky.

"Dream takes me to this spot in the woods."

"Ah, yes, the oasis."

"What exactly is that place?"

"A place that normally only fairies have access to," Karl explains. "The place is shrouded by fairy magic, invisible to humans, and only fae creatures may enter. Though, because I imagine Dream shares some of his magic with you, you are able to enter with him."

"There's a guy there, I met him once...Wilbur? I think?"

"Yes, an old friend of ours. He's a water nymph that lives at the bottom of that spring."

"What are water nymphs?"

"Well, nymphs are fae creatures that embody an element of nature. Water and wood nymphs are the ones most commonly and heavily associated with fairies, and are the only ones I have personally come across. Wilbur is the guardian of that oasis. His very existence is protecting that space."

A small gasp escapes George. So, he'd met the overseer of that space. Good to know.

"I understand it must be a lot to take in," Karl goes on, leaning back against the table in the study section of the basement. "I'm honestly quite surprised you didn't question the entire... finding Dream in a basket story."

"To be honest, I did," George admits, chuckling. "But, like... I guess I didn't wanna pry."

I didn't want to risk losing him.

"It's his life, not mine. I didn't want to invade or anything."

Karl laughs, head tilting back.

"Oh, George. If anything, Dream is the one who invited you in."

❀ 

Back at the dorm, Sapnap is in, doing some homework on his side under a bright light, headphones plugged into his laptop. He doesn't even notice George and Dream come in, and George has to tap him on the shoulder to get his attention.

"Oh, hey! Where've you two been?" he asks, smiling brightly.

"Just out and about. Going for walks. It's important that I get my exercise, even with shit lungs," George jokes, heading for his bed. "Don't mind us, we're just gonna do some studying together."

"Uh-huh." George pretends he doesn't hear the suggestiveness in his tone or the smirk he gives them when he turns back around.

While Dream studies for calculus, George studies for history. They sit in silence, though a few lyrics from Sapnap's headphones manage to breach the hard plastic. Finals are just around the corner, and while George's workload is considerably light due to... obvious circumstances, he still finds himself just as stressed as everyone else.

But he figures, if he bombs the test, it wouldn't matter much. He's sure Dream would hate him for saying that, so he keeps his mouth shut.

When the time comes for Dream to head out, he takes George's hand in his. It's as if he can feel the blood from Dream's veins flowing into his.

And in his palm sits a delicate purple flower.

"Purple's my favorite color," George whispers, barely audible as Sapnap is still sitting a mere few feet away, thankfully still turned away.

"I'll keep that in mind," Dream whispers back, standing up from George's bed. "I'll see you around!" he says louder, to both George and Sapnap.

"Ah, have a good night!" Sapnap replies with that same bright smile, waving as Dream leaves and shuts the door behind him. As soon as the door is closed, Sapnap gives George a look.

"What?" George asks.

"Are you two a thing?"

"Wh—no! No, we aren't! What makes you think that?"

"You two spend an awful lot of time together. Like, I come back and you're gone and I can immediately assume you're with him. Seriously, do you like him?" Sapnap has slid his headphones off his ears, and it sits resting behind his neck.

George's eyes narrow. He sits back down on the bed, sneaking the flower behind his back, obstructing it from view. "I don't... know."

Sapnap raises an eyebrow. "You don't... know."

"Well, I like him as a person, as a friend, yeah."

"Oh, come on, George. You know what I mean. Do you want to date him? Maybe get in his pants, if that's something that's doable for somebody in your shoes?"

George nearly chokes on air. Is it doable? Yes, George imagines so, though he would certainly lose every ounce of air in his lungs if that were to happen to him. He tries to picture it, somebody running their hands down his body, touching all the right spots, caressing him lovingly and pressing kisses into the thin lining of his skin, on his ribs, lower. He's a very thin built boy. But he tries to think of someone who would love him despite all of that, despite the fact that he'll die before them and looks like a walking skeleton sometimes and wakes up in the middle of the night coughing like he'll hack up a lung— "Uh... George?"

George blinks rapidly, shuddering. "What? What?"

"You spaced out for a minute. What, you fantasizing about him now?"

George swallows.

Strangely enough, that "someone" appearing in his vision looked a lot like Dream.

"N-no!" It comes out pathetically.

"Yeah, okay." Sapnap snorts with a very conspicuous eye roll, but he doesn't turn back to his work.

He continues to stare at George, almost expectantly.

"Come on, Sapnap, be realistic," George says, looking away.

"Realistic as in cynical?" Sapnap asks, because he knows too. George is just that predictable.

"Oh, that's not fair." George pouts.

"I'm sure you were gonna say something like, 'I'm gonna die so what's the point of dating?' And, like, come on, dude. Yeah, you might be dying, but don't you wanna live before you die?"

George stares back blankly. Nobody's ever asked him that before, and he certainly hasn't asked himself that. But then again, it must be so easy for them to spew words like that, because they're the ones who are living and have all the chances and opportunities to live. They're the ones who get to live through wars and seeing things being built and breaking down. They're the ones who truly get to live before they die.

But alas, he can't hate Sapnap for asking him that, because he knows Sapnap has a point. He knows Dream has a point. All of them have a point, but George just doesn't see it like that.

Death is so close, impending, looming above his head. It's teasing him, beckoning him closer. It floods his brain with thoughts of the end and only the end. The true mastermind of his brain, the epicenter of everything cynical that lives within him.

George's fingers pinch the petals gently. They're so smooth. He can't believe Dream created it with his own hand.

He's still breathing. He still has working eyes and working limbs and a functioning brain. He still has life in him.

"You know that saying, 'live like you're dying?' I personally think it's bullshit, because there are so many ways to die and so many ways to be in pain and not everyone has the privilege of living like it's their last day on earth. Plus, it's the living who say that as a means of motivation. You know what I say? I say, to hell with life and death. I'm doing whatever the hell I want, living or dying."

George can't help but laugh at the way Sapnap proclaims it like something out of a Shakespearan drama.

"In all seriousness, you're alive now, George. So live now, so you can die knowing you lived."

George smiles softly, releasing the petals from his clubbed fingers.

He supposes he could try.

❀ 

When finals end, there is one final final, and that's the dance recital of Sapnap and Techno's dance crew. George hadn't been able to see any of the other performances at his parents' and even Sapnap's behests, but he finally got the approval to go.

The performance is at an auditorium twenty minutes away from campus. Dream accompanies him with his natural healing aura and all, making the bus ride smooth sailing. One thing George notices, however, is that Dream's fingers continuously brush up against the back of his hand— whether it's consciously or unconsciously, George doesn't know, but he doesn't entirely mind. It's almost reassuring, having someone like Dream so close to him, and not just because of his natural healing aura.

It can't just be his natural healing aura, because that doesn't explain the butterflies dancing around in his stomach whenever he so much as thinks about Dream. If Dream's aura healed that, he'd be all set and everything would be fine, but he worries now that when Dream holds his hand, they'll clam up, and George doesn't understand why they do that. Or when his heart begins to pick up speed when Dream is near. Surely it's not the pulmonary fibrosis.

The auditorium is bustling with people when they arrive, the closeness of everybody spurring anxiety in George already. He hasn't been in a place this packed since the first day he arrived at university, and he remembers how he'd gotten so exhausted that he had to sit down and Sapnap sat down with him and everything felt so awful because he just brought Sapnap down and— "Hey."

George blinks and Dream's hand slides in his. "Come on, there are some seats over here."

Dream motions his head to the very left side of the auditorium, where indeed, there are more unoccupied seats. "What's more important, George, your health or a front row seat? Don't be silly."

It's almost as if Dream read his mind. Is that another fairy perk?

They sit down in the middle of the leftmost section, away from the majority, most of which sit in the center section. Dream holds George's hand the entire time, and George is so flustered that he can't even begin to focus on if they're receiving dirty looks or not. Not that he cares all that much to begin with.

But Dream keeps his eyes focused straight ahead on the dimly-lit stage, waiting for the show to start.

And then, an energetic voice booms from the surround-sound speakers, announcing the dance team's entrance as the curtain parts and the stage explodes in blue. The audience roars, some already standing on their feet as they clap with loud applause. Dream remains seated, face illuminated by blue, clapping passionately. Up on the stage stands the two tallest dancers, Sapnap and Techno, among others, dressed in matching black tracksuits and baseball caps.

Some loud hip-hop song George doesn't recognize starts blaring from the speakers and the dance routine begins. George has never seen a dance performance so up close and personal before, and to say it's breathtaking isn't even an overstatement. Just watching numerous bodies glide and flip across the stage is tiring, the sheer volume of the music sending immense shockwaves up George's feet and all the way to his heart. It beats to the rhythm, pumping blood and air to the rest of his body at an inconceivable pace.

And still, Dream has not let go of his hand.

Among all the chaos and clamor of the performance, George can breathe.

George had never seen Sapnap dance before, and now, it feels as if his eyes have been blessed. Sapnap may have bragged a little bit in the beginning, but for good fucking reason. George can't keep his eyes off of him, the way he effortlessly executes the most intricate moves and struts across the stage like he owns it. Techno is up there too, a dynamic duo that couldn't move more perfectly in sync.

Perhaps George is a bit biased considering they're his friends, but they really do shine the brightest up there.

With pride hot and heavy surging through his body, George stands up and joins the crowd in its rowdy cheers, letting go of Dream's hand and hollering with the rest. Dream stands up too, doesn't reach for George's hand, but instead lets out an ear-piercing shriek, a supersonic boom that is louder than everything else in the room.

George looks at him with the most happiness he's felt in so long, and his heart and lungs swell.

Iridescent blue bouncing off the golden perfection that is his skin, eyes hidden beneath their lids as his entire face is locked in an open wide smile, beauty and life personified—George thinks that Dream may be the most beautiful creature he has ever laid eyes upon.

Dream turns to look at him too and George's heart nearly stops.

"They're so good, George!" he screams, grabbing both of George's hands, clasping them together.

"How do you feel?"

Happy. Energized. Elated. Ecstatic.

Alive.

"I feel great!" he shouts back.

Dream lets go of one of George's hands, keeping the other locked with his as he raises both of their arms up and waves them.

When the performance has finished, George swears an eardrum bursts, but he's still smiling to the point where his face is starting to hurt, but he'd choose this kind of pain over the pain that wracks his lungs any day.

They all convene outside the hall. Sapnap and Techno are still in their tracksuits, foreheads damp from sweat, but they enthusiastically suggest they all get milkshakes despite the cold, and who is George to say no to a creamy delicious strawberry milkshake with whipped cream and a cherry on top?

When they reach the creamery, George can barely feel the cannula in his nose. The tank weighs nothing. He gulps down his milkshake and gets a brain freeze but he laughs it off and they laugh with him. Dream puts his arm around George at one point as they're all talking, and George leans into it unknowingly.

Sapnap and Techno ramble on aimlessly about their wild adventures in such a close-knit dance group, using exaggerated hand gestures and ridiculous vocal inflections, and George finds himself half-listening. It's hard to, when the adrenaline is finally coming down and he sinks further into Dream's one-armed embrace and the sudden awareness that he feels alive.

While the dancing duo is absorbed in their conversation, Dream leans in and asks, "Are you down to go back to the oasis one more time after this?"

Right. Because tomorrow, George goes back home for winter break and won't see Dream for over a month. He will lose the healing aura, will have to go back to walking with shitty lungs and the weight of dread dragging his feet down.

So, without question, George's answer is yes.

❀ 

"I'm surprised it hasn't snowed yet," George thinks out loud. They're laying down on the grass again.

The spring remains unfrozen, seemingly untouched by the season.

"I love snow," Dream says. "Even though the cold kills plants, they always come back."

George hums. The night sky is clear, stars littered about the sky. He has never seen them so vividly before; they truly do twinkle, and he swears he can see them rotate with the rest of the world.

The oasis is much warmer in comparison to the rest of the woods. Instead of winter, it's the beginning of fall, comfortable and temperate. The grass is still green even though the leaves are gone.

"Thank you for coming with me," George says. "I had such a great time, and I'm sure I wouldn't have been able to go through that without your natural healing aura."

Dream laughs at George's joking tone. "Of course, George. I'd use my power any day if that means you get to experience life like that."

Something about that statement makes George's stomach quake.

His heart is starting to pick up speed again. They're shoulder-to-shoulder, faces pointed up at the star-riddled sky. George can breathe, sure, but the rest of his body is tingling, the butterflies having spread from his stomach to the rest of him.

"Dream, I wanna ask you something."

"Yeah?"

"What will you do when I'm gone?"

"George, please, not this again."

"I want to know," George says, firm. His throat tightens.

He's asked this question to his parents before, stone-faced and emotion-free.

So why is it so hard to ask it now?

"I want to know, and it's not just because I'm cynical. Nobody can deny what's inevitable, and I just want to make sure that the ones I care about will be okay."

Dream sighs. George feels him roll over.

"George, everyone who cares about you won't be okay when you die."

George swallows despite the tightness in his throat.

"Why do you think it's so difficult to hear you talk like that? I mean... George, I know that it's easy for you to talk like that, and I know that I don't have much of a say because I'm not the one who's dying and your outlook on life is much different from mine, but like... sometimes you say things as if people don't care about you. Like your life is insignificant just because it's short. Do you see where I'm coming from?"

George shuts his eyes and blocks out the sky and stars. "I just... I just think..." What does he think? He can't even finish his own sentence. Think what? That he's going to die?

That much is obvious. That nothing matters because he's going to die?

His parents and their love and all the time and money they've spent on him. Sapnap and Techno and all their smiles. Karl and Quackity and their infinite amount of generosity and kindness.

And Dream and his everything.

Do those things not matter, just because his life is short?

"Life is precious, George. No matter how long or short. And it's heartbreaking to hear you talk as if your life isn't precious just because it's compromised."

Water wells up beneath George's eyelids. The last time he cried was in front of Techno after he'd had a coughing fit, wailing into the walls about wanting to be normal and wishing that someone would just pull the plug on this sad, sad man and his poor excuse for a body.

He can't cry in front of Dream. Not like this.

But Dream has already gathered him up in his arms before the tears fall, and George doesn't even register it. He sobs and sobs into Dream's chest, arms and legs curled up and heart pounding erratically in his chest.

No healing aura could erase this.

"I've got you, George," Dream whispers. "I'm right here. I've got you."

George's body is brittle. Underweight, pallid, ugly, and disgusting. He's weak. He can't breathe if it weren't for his tank. He is strong by no means, can't smoke, can't drink, can't do anything that the everyday college student would be able to do. He's barely living by Sapnap's terms and sees the world as if it's shrouded in darkness.

But in Dream's arms?

He may be a crying, slobbering mess, but he feels alive.

Dream pets the back of his head, fingers gingerly threading through his thin black hair as he kisses his forehead over and over.

"Life is so precious," he whispers again. "You are precious, Georgie."

When George finally manages to muster up enough strength to lift his face from Dream's chest, he gazes into those moonlit eyes as if Dream were life itself. Dream's hand wanders from his head to his cheek, thumb brushing over his tear-stained face.

"George, forgive me," Dream says, and before George can even ask what for, the glistening fairy leans in and captures his lips with his own.

Startled, George can barely catch a breath and goes rigid in Dream's arms, but only for a brief moment. Dream's kiss is hesitant, and that's when George remembers that Dream didn't have any friends growing up, that he'd never needed any, and now, Dream is kissing him and he may very well be Dream's first kiss.

Dream pulls away with a gasp, breathless.

"Sorry," he says.

"Sorry?" George has it in him to laugh. "You just kissed me and you're apologizing?"

"W-well, it's just, I'm sorry I didn't say anything before, and, like, it was my first time kissing someone so I'm sure it was terrible but—" George surges forward to kiss him again just to shut him up.

Was the kiss terrible? Absolutely not, at least by George's standards since he has literally nothing else to compare it to.

"I can't believe you have the audacity to apologize," George laughs when he pulls away. "How could kissing someone as magical as you warrant an apology?"

Dream's face brightens at that, his hands traveling back down to take George's fingers in his, squeezing tight.

"I just had to get it out of the way before you leave me," Dream says.

"Just for a month, and then I'll be back," George reassures.

Dream nods and squeezes his hands again. "You'll be back. Promise?"

"Promise." George squeezes back.

"Okay."

Dream pauses for a moment, then says, "Hey, remember that? That was a thing in the book I showed you."

"Yeah, a really cheesy thing. 'Maybe okay will be our always.'" Dream snorts with laughter, a sound that George could listen to on repeat any day.

"Then what should be our 'okay?'" he asks.

"No," George says. "We're not doing that," he adds before Dream says something along the lines of "'No' is our okay, then!"

Dream pouts, then pecks George's nose. It tingles and burns with the intensity of a million suns.

Because that's what Dream is, a blazing, magical sun with the gravitational pull strong enough to capture a dying man's cynical heart and turn it into something just as magical.

At least, that's how George feels.

Magical.

Alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this isn't "wattpad" style writing lmfao


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George is one who believes in second chances; it's just that he's too far gone to get his. His lungs are practically turning to stone, and without an oxygen tank and a tube in his nose, he may as well be dead on the floor.
> 
> One fateful night, he meets Dream, a mysterious boy with a strange affinity for nature, whose world is a little more than supernatural. It's magical.
> 
> (This is a story with VERY long chapters, filled with angst, sadness, and things related to that. tread carefully, but enjoy!!)

"Quackity, why did that bird look like that?"

"It was dead, Dream."

"Dead? Is that what happens when things die?"

"Well, no, not all the time. Not every living thing dies in such a gruesome fashion."

"What happens when things die, then?"

"They become part of the earth."

"I don't get it."

"You will understand someday. Now is not the time. One day... you will see for yourself. And then, you may ask that question again."

❀ 

The hospital is basically George's second home.

The first time he'd been through the halls of the actual hospital was after pediatrics found that his condition might not be just asthma. They sent him and his mother to the general hospital across the street immediately after his physical for image scans, where he lay on a table that inserted him into a big tube that buzzed and whirred and clicked around him, engulfing his world in a mechanical blue. 

George was only thirteen, confused and afraid, and his mother told him to listen to every word and instruction the doctor told him, be a good boy and stay still and to "not worry."

He was given a room. Room 117. There he sat with pain in his chest, apprehension bubbling inside him, lungs crackling when he breathed. He was given the choice of staying or going home to wait for the results, and of course, he chose home, where his warm bed and a cup of hot chocolate was waiting for him.

That night, he fell out of bed, heaving and coughing while hunched over on the floor, tears pouring from his eyes. He cried and cried, and it got harder and harder to breathe. He was curled up in his father's arms as they rushed him in, and he was put under and fed oxygen for the first time.

The results came back five days later. George was still in room 117, bored out of his mind, but the cannula was new and exciting and he felt like he could breathe just the least bit better. His mother had been pulled out of the room, and George watched as the doctor dropped the bomb on her through the window, watched her hand clamp over her mouth, watched her eyes bug out and her face fall.

The doctor tried to put it in simple terms for thirteen-year-old George to understand:

"Your image scans showed signs of consolidation in your lungs, which is why it's hard for you to breathe. We don't have a definitive diagnosis just yet, so we'll have to run some more tests." George had to ask what consolidation meant. "In image scans, lungs aren't supposed to be white. That whiteness is consolidation. Consolidation."

Solid. Not soft and squishy and pink and healthy like normal lungs are supposed to be.

George continued to do what his mother told him to do. Listen and be a good boy and stay still and don't worry.

George was poked and prodded with needles, and even though he never dreaded getting his shots as a child, vaccines were nothing in comparison to what he went through. He was told he needed a "biopsy," and as soon as he heard the word "cancer," more tears burst from his eyes. They assured him that the procedure was just a way of getting a diagnosis, that it may or may not be cancer, but even George knew at that age that cancer was bad and people die from it.

He didn't stop crying until the anesthesia kicked in. He woke up, drowsy and disoriented, and it was only after the painkillers wore off that he felt the excruciating pain in his ribs.

"What did they do?" he asked his mother, who was sitting by his hospital bed. He wanted to cry again.

"They had to take out some of your lung tissue, honey. It's okay, it'll heal."

The incision scar on his skin, maybe. But his lungs? Certainly not.

"Pulmonary fibrosis." The doctor sounded so sure. And he asked George many questions, all of which he said no to. The doctor was left puzzled.

"Idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis in a thirteen-year-old..." He trailed off, sounding considerably less sure, maybe even astounded. He spoke with George's mother again outside in the hall, and she came back with teary eyes that she tried to hide with the back of her hand.

Doctors have to be straight up sometimes, even with young ones. George tried to be a good boy, listened to every word the doctor told him, but the only ones he truly latched onto were "chronic," "incurable," and "terminal."

His mother had to explain it to him later, under the dim light of his hospital room, in even simpler terms.

"It's where... your lungs become increasingly damaged, and it makes it hard to breathe," she'd said. "And once the damage is done, it can't be... it can't be fixed. It's permanent, and there's no cure."

There is no cure, but there is treatment.

And so, treatment for George began.

Removed from school. Given oxygen therapy, weekly appointments. Numerous blood tests.

Breathing exercises. A healthy diet. Anything and everything George could do to live a little better even though his body was destroying itself.

Crying hurt, George learned over time. It hurt his lungs, and he couldn't catch his breath, and his mother had to come in at night to cradle him to sleep. And she would cry a lot too, in what she thought was secrecy, but George witnessed her cry too many times when he wasn't supposed to and that was why he decided to stop. He needed to be strong. For her. For his father.

He couldn't care less about himself, however.

He did what he could. But as days ticked by and seasons began to blend together, spent nearly every minute indoors with only a few walks around the neighborhood for his exercise, he became increasingly tired, and not the kind of tired sleep could fix. And as he got older, he came to realize just what his illness was doing to him and what that meant for his future, or lack thereof.

If it weren't for his parents, he would rip the cannula out of his nose, go to sleep without it, and never wake up again.

He was in and out of the hospital as the spider spun its web and coated his lungs with its venom.

They began to feel like weights in him, ones he couldn't lift because they were part of him. He wanted nothing more than to rip them out; they were killing him anyway. The lung transplant option was always on the table... but George had already given up.

When he thinks about it, maybe the day he was diagnosed was the day he gave up, unbeknownst to his thirteen-year-old self.

Sitting in a hospital room isn't George's ideal way of spending the new year, but it's what he gets for being ill. He had coughed up a storm trying to convince his mother he was feeling fine, that it was just a normal episode, but she brought him anyway.

So here he lies, in room 117 once again.

[George] 

Guess who just got SCANNED 

[Dream]

??? 

like, ct scan?

Are you okay???

[George] 

Yeah i'm fine, just had an episode and my mom got all scared so she brought me to the hospital It's not that big of a deal really. I'm feeling better already

[Dream]

:(

Well... at least you'll have another picture to hang up on your wall I just hope it doesn't look worse... Chances are, it won't. 

Maybe there are a few more strings here and there, but his lungs are white when they're supposed to be black and nothing is going to change that. The spider inside him will continue to live as long as he does. His lungs will get whiter and whiter until the webs become too heavy and dense and his lungs stop altogether.

He stays at the hospital overnight, figuring it would be a good move in case his lungs decide to act up again. Dream might not be there to help him breathe, but a good supply of oxygen and painkillers are. His mother brings him sweets when he asks for them even though he's supposed to be eating well. He wonders why she agrees so easily.

When George is shown the images of his lungs, he can't tell the difference. But the doctors can, and according to them, there has been an increase.

"So does that mean I'm getting closer to dying?" George asks.

His mother gasps. "George!"

"I wouldn't say that necessarily," the doctor tells him. It's about as honest as the doctor can get.

Dr. Lee is his name, he's balding and he has spots on his hands. He's been straight up with George in the past and knows how George feels about a lung transplant. The offer is always on the table whenever George sees him.

This time is an exception. As if Dr. Lee has finally come to accept it.

There isn't much else they can do for him. His oxygen tank is examined, his medication is refilled, and he's sent on his merry way.

In his backpack sits the potion Karl had gifted him. He remembers it one night and takes it out, turning it in his hands. It's warm, sparkling even in the dark. He hasn't taken a single sip from it, not even during the episode that led to his hospital visit in the first place. Perhaps he's saving it for something worse, maybe, if he starts coughing up blood or if he's truly on the brink of death.

He wonders what it will feel like, drinking it. If he would feel the magic coursing through him. If it feels anything like what being with Dream feels like.

They text almost daily. Dream bemoans his loneliness and complains about Quackity and Karl being up his ass about something that he doesn't elaborate on. George tells him that his lungs look worse, and Dream sends several crying and angry emojis in response.

Being at home is all too familiar, making his first semester at university seem like a dream. A hallucination due to his lack of oxygen. Maybe he's already dead and his soul is wandering the dimensions. Maybe Dream doesn't exist. Maybe fairies don't exist. Maybe Dream is a figment of his broken imagination, fabricated from false hope that he has a chance in life even when he knows he doesn't.

Maybe he truly is bedridden and dying. Him returning to university for the second semester will be nothing but another dream. When he's laying in bed, staring up at the brilliant moon, eyes unwavering, he wonders if he could jump into it and wake up. As if that glowing ball in the sky is his portal back to the real world.

He stares and stares. He can't bring himself to stand up and try.

And then he realizes unceremoniously that he's dying in both worlds. There's no point in going back.

❀

In the seven years George was stuck at home, he spent nearly all his time familiarizing himself with the house. When he wasn't sitting in his room watching dramas and anime, he brought his tank with him wherever he went, upstairs, downstairs, all around, and he walked just to remind himself that he could. He watched cobwebs grow in the corner of the living room until his mother finally decided to vacuum them up. He counted how many days it took lightbulbs to go out. After he studied, he'd go outside and do laps around the yard. That was the extent of his exercise.

He finds himself falling back into that routine. He chooses his courses for the next semester and steps out onto the front porch where he watches the snow fall in imperfect little flakes onto the lawn. The frigid air isn't good for him and he knows it, but he quite enjoys the cold itself. It hugs him just as heat would. It tickles the tips of his ears and nose. It covers his vision in pristine white and makes him feel.

When he goes back inside, he runs his fingers along every surface of the house. The polished and unpolished wood, the stiff fabric of the living room sofa, the granite kitchen tops, and more. His mother watches him for a few seconds before returning to the daily newspaper. She's watched him do it before.

"No matter what you do, those surfaces aren't going to change much," she'd told him.

"I know," he'd replied. "But I figured I might as well imagine they could."

That's what George has. His imagination.

He can imagine a different life, one where he'd go to the market with his mother and breathe in all the delicious foods. He'd go to the park and interact with his peers, make friends and have sleepovers and make buttery popcorn for movie nights. He'd fall in love and hold hands with somebody and kiss them. He'd have sex. He'd have his heart broken and repaired. He'd travel.

Walk. Run. Swim. Jump. Explore.

He'd live.

An undulating pool of memories that don't exist floats above his head at night. He dreams of it. He dreams of his younger self growing up without the cannula, without the swollen fingers and the dry coughing and the heaving, gaining weight and muscle and playing sports and getting his diploma.

He walks up on that stage, tall and proud, and waves to the throng of people he doesn't know. No tank trailing behind him. Not a flaw to be seen.

He eats dinner with his family and they talk and smile and laugh. George tells them about Dream.

Tells them that he is one of the most animated people George has ever met and has a thing for nature.

Says that he has black hair with a bluish tint to it and brown eyes that have specks of green. Says that he really likes flowers but doesn't know the names of any of them. His parents laugh endearingly, and tell him that they'd love to meet Dream someday.

He tells them about Sapnap and Techno and how their performance took his breath away, literally.

He talks about how the lights looked, how they made him feel like he was in a whole new world.

Like he was living in the depths of the ocean and he had gills and he could breathe. They listen intently, with eyes filled with wonder and mouths curved into tender smiles.

And it's okay. George feels okay. Cynicism runs through his being, but he feels okay.

He texts Dream out of the blue, i'm feeling okay.

And Dream replies, that's great, George. things r gonna be okay :) George knows deep down that things won't be okay.

But he figures might as well imagine that they will be.

❀

"I would give you a hug, but I know how you don't like people touching you and all so I'll give you a telepathic hug," is the first thing Sapnap says when George steps into their room.

It hasn't changed much at all; Sapnap's crap is still littered in miscellaneous piles on his side of the room. George's pillows are still in place. Sapnap arrived before him, so he's already sheeted his bed and made himself back at home.

They go out for smoothies and say hi to Techno at the café. They stay there until the sun is low in the sky. George talks about the hospital and how his lungs look worse, but not by much. It makes Sapnap frown, expectedly, but George shrugs and swears he doesn't feel any worse.

Techno slides into the booth next to Sapnap once his shift is over, offering them chocolate-covered strawberries and mini croissants. They're so bubbly when they're together, George notes. They bounce off each other's energy, their eyes disappear when they laugh together, and all feels right with the world when George sees two people so happy like that.

The last time he'd truly laughed was when he was fourteen. He'd doubled over in laughter, and then in pain, as the air he inhaled while laughing never came out right. It was all in coughs, until he was on the floor and carried to the hospital once more.

Dr. Lee was frank with him.

"Actions such as crying or laughing may exacerbate the attacks."

So George learned not to laugh, to keep his mouth shut, to stop his body whenever it needed release because the release never happened right. Whether he laughed or cried, he could never catch his breath. It was best to stop altogether. When he cried, there were tears and sniffles, but he would not allow anything more. His laughs were reduced to mere chuckles and giggles. He became somewhat hollow, his emotions were there but never there, never surfaced, because he couldn't risk it.

The night he spent with Dream before he left for winter break was the first time he properly sobbed in years. And it was because of Dream, that it was possible in the first place.

When he and Sapnap and Techno finally part ways, George carries himself and his tank to the clearing, where sure enough, Jung Dream is standing. And completely ignoring the tube dangling in front of George's body, he rams straight into George in a monster hug, nearly knocking George off his feet.

"I missed you so much, George! Holy shit, it was so boring without you here," he says in a flurry, sounding breathless already. He pulls away, reluctantly, and straightens out his coat's front. "How was your break?"

George shrugs, hands tucked into his pockets. His breath flutters up into little clouds. His breath. He can see his breath.

Perhaps that's why he likes the cold.

"Boring. It was like my life came back to me," George says. As soon as the words are out, he realizes just how morbid they sound.

"And what is that life?" Dream asks.

A life of translucent pictures of his insides. Needles and fluids and tests. Of wandering his house on a daily basis, stepping outside for a few puffs of the earth's air, seeing the same sights. Trying to sleep despite the moonlight taunting him with a different dimension. Tracing surfaces with his cold, chubby fingers and imagining them, anything, changing.

A life spent imagining a different life.

Dream nods. He doesn't put up a fight, to George's surprise, as if he's starting to understand.

George doesn't know if that's a good thing or not.

❀ 

Dream's bedroom is a treasure trove of flowers and trinkets. It has this old fashioned charm to it, just like the rest of the house. The floorboards creak. It's warm because the plants need that.

There's a miniature chandelier hanging in the middle of the ceiling, its limbs like curved branches of a tree. The bulbs look like tulips.

His room is golden, just like him.

His bed is veiled by wispy pink curtains, sheets a blinding shade of white. When George sits on it, he wants to melt into it.

"This is certainly better than the dorm beds," he comments.

Dream snorts. "Tell me about it. Good thing fairies don't need that much sleep. Sleeping on Sapnap's bed was a nightmare in and of itself."

George lies down. It's even comfier than his bed back home. Floral aromas seep into his nose, filling his brain with a pink bliss, a sparkling haze. He can see it when he shuts his eyes, little flecks of gold glitter shimmering in the dark.

"Are you tired, George?" Dream asks.

"Always."

"You could sleep here if you want," Dream offers. "Your trip back here must have been tiring."

George opens one eye and raises that eyebrow. "You don't wanna explore? I'm surprised you didn't suggest we go to the oasis."

"George, it's the middle of winter."

"Touché."

"I'm surprised you are the one who brought up exploring." Dream winks his way. "You like it, right? The trips we take to the woods?"

George nods. "Your magic works wonders, Dream. When I was home... it was like my life lost all its magic."

Dream lies down next to him, arms touching. He faces the ceiling, a cottony pink sky beneath the curtains. "Have you ever been to a hospital, Dream?" George asks.

"No," Dream answers honestly. "Being a fairy, there's no real need for us to go to human hospitals. Why do you ask?"

"That's where I was over break. For, like, the first half of it."

"What's it like?"

"Think of it like... a giant white space. Emptiness. But that emptiness is filled with dread and boredom, because you're waiting for someone to come and tell you what you already know. That you're not okay. That your life is slowly slipping away and there's nothing you can do to stop it.

But it's reassuring, I guess, knowing that you're a step closer to death."

Dream blinks.

George continues, "There's a lot of noise coming from other places that aren't your room because other people are dying there too. You just can't see. You're so immersed in your own blank world that you forget that other people are dying too. There are heart monitors set up for some people because you never know if it'll stop. It smells like chemicals because people need medicine to stay alive. You sit there, in a giant white space, surrounded by pain. That's what being in a hospital is like."

Dream blinks again. Stares. George hadn't even noticed Dream slipping his fingers in the spaces between his own.

"I got cynical again," George mumbles.

"It's okay," Dream says.

Is it really?

"I... should expect that, honestly. Humans go to the hospital because they're sick or injured. It's all pain in there."

"Yeah."

Dream looks down. Sunshine in a walking body, dejected. Like a monstrous raincloud materialized over his head and put out the enormous flame.

"Dream, I'm... I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you upset or anything."

"It's okay, George. Really." Dream looks up again, squeezes his hand. "Not everything can be sunshine and flowers. I know that now."

"I didn't... I didn't want to..." George trails off. Didn't want to what?

"You must feel helpless," Dream whispers. His voice shakes, as does his hand.

"Y-yeah."

"Because you're dying, and you can't stop it."

"Yeah."

Dream nods. He sighs, glancing down at their intertwined fingers.

"George... even as a fairy, I don't... I don't have the power to save you."

"Dream, I don't need saving. I've accepted my fate."

Dream grimaces. He almost seems to shrink, his hand squeezing George's even tighter. "It makes me feel helpless too. Knowing I can't do anything to save you even though I have so much power."

"Hey, Dream. Please, look at me."

Dream concedes, looking up. George can see the flecks of emerald gleaming under a golden light.

"I'm gonna be okay. Nobody can stop this from happening, but I'm here now, alright? I'm here now."

I'm here now.

In this golden moment.

George feels like his body is spread across a bed of flower petals. He's warm and soft and brimming with color.

He knows what it feels like to be high, from that day at the oasis.

Is this what being drunk feels like?

His head is swimming. He can feel his eyelids growing heavy, his body succumbing to some sort of gravitational pull. Helpless, but not because he's dying. He can't stop himself.

"And I'm grateful," Dream says. He raises their hands to his lips and presses a kiss to the back of George's. Like two plush petals against his skin. "I am so grateful, that you are here with me right now. It's what we'll always have, George. We'll always have now."

"We'll always have yesterday too," George points out.

Dream's face brightens, spreading like sunshine. "Exactly," he says, kissing George's hand again.

"Tomorrow will always be uncertain. But that's okay, isn't it?"

George nods. He could die tomorrow. But he could also live tomorrow. And that would certainly be okay.

"You know..." Dream says. "I was always curious as to why you never questioned me."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I told you that I was found in a basket right off the bat. We hadn't even known each other for a half hour and I was already telling you I basically had two dads that found me in a basket near a train station."

George snorts. "Or how Quackity and Karl don't look a day over twenty, or how I could all of a sudden breathe around you, or how the flowers kept randomly appearing, or how those flowers kept disappearing."

"Yeah, all of that too." Dream giggles. "Flowers that I produce don't last. They wither and disappear after a certain amount of time. I think it's because my powers aren't super developed yet, because Karl and Quackity's flowers always last."

George laughs too. "I mean... I guess I was afraid to ask more. Like, I knew how... odd your life was, but I was afraid that if I asked, you'd get squicked out or something."

"Well, I wouldn't have gotten squicked out, but I would've had to come up with more lies to tell you. I was upfront with you because... I don't know, you just seemed... different?"

George raises an eyebrow. "Uh huh. I do have a tube up my nose, that's pretty different."

Dream gives his shoulder a light shove. "Hey, no more cynicism for you tonight."

"It's merely an observation and an irrefutable fact!"

Dream rolls his eyes and continues, "Remember how I told you about what the flowers said to me?"

"That I was your new friend?"

"Yeah. That's why I was so upfront with you. Why I opened up to you so easily. Nature has a way of knowing things. It sees all. And the flowers chose you."

"Chose me for what?"

"To be my friend, of course. The flowers had never done that for me before. You know how many times I went to the park as a kid? Every time, I'd play with some of the neighboring kids but never once did I make friends with them. The trees always rustled differently around them. A warning sign that they were, or were going to be, bad people."

"Wasn't it lonely?"

Dream shakes his head. He's still smiling, George notices. "Plants and animals are my friends.

Quackity and Karl are my friends. I didn't need anyone else."

"But now..." 

"But now there's you, Georgie."

Dream's graceful fingers trace the sharp line of George's jaw.

"Do you really need me though?" George asks, his voice small.

"Well, what do you think?"

No, not really, George wants to say. But his mouth is filled with flowers that are sucking all the moisture out of it, and when he's looking at Dream he can't bring himself to say anything that would dare poison those flowers.

You may not need me, he thinks this time. But maybe you do.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

❀ 

Maybe I'll die tomorrow.

But maybe I'll live.

And I'll take 'maybe' over 'won't' any day, If I want to live, I have no other choice.

❀ 

What does nature know? It doesn't know all.

And what it knows, it doesn't always tell.

Because maybe the future will change.

Maybe the wind will blow in a different direction.

Maybe the flowers will bloom earlier than expected.

Maybe the trees will shed their leaves later than expected.

The fauna may run away, or they may stay in place.

Nature knows a lot.

But it doesn't know everything.

6: He acts like he knows it all. He doesn't. Because things change, and life is unpredictable, no matter how short.

❀ 

"What are you doing?" Sapnap asks, glancing over at George's laptop screen.

He and Dream are huddled closely together on one of the library's loveseats, eyes fixed on the rotating sphere of a satellite-generated image.

"We're traveling," Dream answers. "Typing in random coordinates into Google Earth and seeing where it takes us."

"That's actually a really good date idea," Techno comments.

George completely disregards the fact that Techno said the notoriously feared d-word.

"So far, we've been to Papua New Guinea, Venezuela, Iran, Colorado, Quebec, Singapore, Mali —" "It's been a ride," George interjects before Dream lists the twenty-something other locations they've touched down upon.

Sapnap and Techno look at each other with a glint of something in their eyes. George knows what they're thinking.

But in all honesty, he can't bring himself to deny it or defend himself against it.

Because what's the point in defending himself against something he knows to be true?

Sapnap looks back at him with a smirk and all-knowing eyes. George has it in him to return the exact same look.

"Cute," is what Sapnap ends up saying.

Dream chuckles, and George loses himself in the sound of it.

Yes, yes he is.

❀ 

"Did you know that it's illegal to take pictures of the Eiffel Tower at night?" Dream asks as he scrolls through Google images of the Eiffel Tower at night.

George peers over Dream's shoulder to look at all the possibly illegally-taken photographs of the magnificent Eiffel Tower with its latticework lit up like a Christmas tree. "Seems like a lot of people would go to jail then."

"Jail time for taking a picture? Surely the punishment would just be a fine or something!"

George shrugs. "Maybe all of those pictures were taken with special permission."

"Maybe." Dream huffs and exits the tab, returning to his blank document for an essay due in two days. "To think, wanting to capture such a beautiful sight and keep it forever is illegal. Imagine if the entire world was like that. There'd be no beauty in the world, George! Beauty is meant to be remembered, don't you think?"

Because what if people forget?

"Photographs are some of the world's greatest inventions, George. You can see and remember everything. And you can choose which sights you want to keep. I think that's a beautiful thing."

Dream chuckles to himself and starts typing.

It's astounding how quickly Dream's brain works. One minute, he's giggling over photographs existing and the next his smile is gone and his eyes are laser-focused on a procrastinated assignment. George would have to raise his voice or snap his fingers in front of Dream's face to get his attention, as he's come to learn.

Without another thought, George finds himself picking up his phone, opening his camera, and snapping a picture of Dream in his most concentrated state.

I would take a million pictures of you if that meant I get to remember you when I'm gone.

❀ 

What goes up must come down.

George plummets at the end of February, quite literally, when he jolts awake to a pressure in his chest, coughs gurgling in the back of his throat until they force their way out of him. His hands struggle for purchase, fumbling until all his limbs seize up and his body slips onto the ground, landing with a thud that rivals a tree falling in the middle of the woods.

It indeed makes a sound. Sapnap shoots up almost immediately.

"George, hey! George!"

I'm okay, I'm okay. But the words come out as more coughs.

The potion. Need the potion.

But Sapnap can't know the potion exists.

There are tears rising in George's eyes, his throat burning with metallic air. He can't tell where Sapnap is standing; it's too dark and his eyes sting and everything is covered in a veil of water. Everything is rippling. His head is pounding.

Everything in him is screaming.

"S... g-go..." 

"Go where? George-ah, where do you need me to go? Do you need to go to the hospital?"

George manages to shake his head. "W... ah... wa-ter."

"Fuck, fuck, okay. Water. I'll be right back, okay? Fuck, should've filled it up earlier..." Sapnap's voice gets farther and farther away, until George hears the door shut, Sapnap's flip flops smacking against the floor.

With the air he can manage, George crawls to his backpack despite his limbs locking. His fingers are on fire as he unzips it, just barely, just enough to slip his hand through and grab the bottle filled with the magic liquid.

Only one sip is all it takes.

He's burning up, he can feel it, as if the flower surrounding his body has been set aflame.

Something wants him dead. The spider. A demon. Something wants him dead. He is no longer floating among cotton candy clouds or surrounded by a pink sparkling haze.

He's here, in his pathetic excuse for a body, who can barely open a water bottle because he can't breathe.

Perhaps George takes more than one sip. Two gulps, because he chokes trying to get the first sip, the magic liquid trickling down his chin. But the second sip trails down his throat, lukewarm and fruity, and it's almost as if he can feel the magic as soon as it passes his spasming windpipe.

It pools pleasantly in his stomach, like a drop of water falling into the serene surface of an untouched spring. The waves ripple, sending more of itself further and further out from the center.

George blinks the tears from his eyes, his violent coughs dissipating into heavy wheezing as the magic spreads throughout the rest of him.

When Sapnap finally returns with a filled water bottle, George has stopped coughing, and the potion is tucked safely back into his bag.

"Jesus, George," Sapnap mumbles, tipping the bottle into George's mouth. George drinks it willingly despite his symptoms already having subsided. There's still a slight tingle in the back of his mouth. "It's been a while since this happened, you know. I was honestly kind of surprised."

George clears his throat. He drank three quarters of the bottle. "Surprised that this happened?"

"No, I'm surprised that you went that long without having an episode. You warned me at the beginning of last semester, remember? That it would happen a lot. You even told me I could go somewhere else to sleep if I needed to."

That seems so long ago, George thinks. As if he can't even remember saying that to him. Like it never happened.

"Even if it happened a lot, I wouldn't go anywhere else, George. What would happen if you had an episode and nobody was here to help you? What if you can't catch your breath and you die because I'm gone?"

George looks up at him, bewildered. Under the dim light of his desk lamp, he can see Sapnap's glassy eyes, damp with tears.

"When I first met you, you made all these cynical jokes, and you said it was okay to make jokes about your illness, but fucking hell, George. I can't. I can't make jokes. Because this—" Sapnap motions at George's collapsed body. "—isn't a joke. It's not. I get it, if you're lighthearted about your condition because you're the one experiencing it. You're the one feeling it. But we're watching it from the outside. And you have no idea what it feels like, watching from the outside."

When George speaks of the inevitable fact that he is going to die earlier than most, the people around him give him sad looks. His parents used to reprimand him, before they got used to it. The doctor looks tired. Dream frowns. But everyone looks sad. Sad because George is indeed dying.

Maybe George has come to terms with it, but nobody else has.

"It's real, George. It's real." Sapnap swallows, a choked sob breaking past his lips. "I don't want to believe it's real."

"Sapnap..." 

"You don't see it the way we do, George. We're watching you die. We're watching you make light of the fact that you're dying. And we have to remind ourselves that this is how you cope, that this is how you try to make it seem like it's this thing that doesn't matter, but it does, George. None of us want you to watch you die."

George's eyes squeeze shut.

I'm the one dying. I'm the one who has to live with the fact that I'm not going to live. You are watching me die, I'm the one who is dying. What would I see, Sapnap? What would I see in me? If I watched my every move, saw myself through a different pair of eyes, what would be different?

Why does it matter?

You aren't the ones dying.

I am.

So why waste your time wishing that you could save me?

You can't.

Stop.

Just stop.

It's pointless.

When George wakes up the next morning, Sapnap is gone. It's seven, and Sapnap doesn't have class until noon.

❀ 

"What's wrong, George?"

George glances up, though he continues to mindlessly prod the tines of his fork at a blueberry pancake.

He clears his throat, as if evidence of last night's attack still lingers.

"Sapnap... got mad at me, I think."

"Why?"

George bites his lip. His appetite is nonexistent, but Dream would give him hell if he didn't eat.

"I had an episode last night."

Dream's face falls. "Oh."

"I drank some of Karl's potion. It stopped the coughing almost instantly." Despite the good news, Dream remains frowning. "N-not in front of Sapnap, though. I sent him down the hall to get water, and I snuck a sip in when he was gone."

Dream blinks, silent. George can't bring himself to look at him.

"So... why was he mad at you?"

George sighs and sets his fork down. "I don't think he's mad at me. I think he's frustrated. That..." "That..." "That I'm dying. I know I say it a lot. I know I make light of it. Last night was the first attack I've had in months, Dream. Sapnap saw it and freaked out. It was another reminder that my disease is real, and it's killing me. And he said... that he doesn't like it when I make jokes."

"George..." Dream sighs, the look in his eyes spelling careful consideration. "I agree with him."

"Why, Dream? Why don't you guys understand? I'm the one dying, I'm the one making the jokes, I don't see why it matters—" "George, if I or Sapnap or Techno were the ones dying, how would you feel if you had to sit back and watch someone you care about joke about their own inevitable death?"

George's thoughts come to an abrupt halt. Dream is glaring at him, indignance flaming in his speckled eyes. The most dangerous look he'd ever seen in such a mystical, beautiful being. He's known Dream to be nothing but cheery, bountiful.

Who knew?

"You wouldn't be making jokes either. You wouldn't laugh. Right, George? Really, really think about it. When you're on death's row, and your last breath is slipping away, would you joke in front of us while we're standing at your bedside watching your body crumble?" Dream huffs, shaking his head. "We know, George. We are well aware that you are dying. We're not trying to say that you aren't, or that you're not allowed to make light of your illness, but please try to understand why we don't like it when you do. You dying will affect us because you matter."

George can already feel remnants of last night's tears resurfacing. He looks down at his blueberry pancake. It's getting cold, sad, and soggy.

Kind of like him.

"You matter to us, George. Do you know why?"

George shakes his head. He couldn't even begin to fathom why. His parents, maybe, but the rest of them? They've only known him for months.

"You have made yourself known in our memories. You have left impressions on our minds and hearts. And when you're gone, we will lose that piece of us. You are a piece of us, George. Do you know that it's going to hurt when you're gone?"

"Of course I know—" "Then how could you say you don't matter to us? If you acknowledge that it's going to hurt to lose you, why can't you acknowledge you matter to us? Do you truly see yourself like that? Like you don't matter? If you didn't matter, we wouldn't hurt."

George glances to his side. Several tables were looking at them as Dream had raised his voice. He wonders, does he matter to those people? Would the people that don't know him weep for him?

Does he matter to them?

But does that even matter?

"When things die... they become part of the earth," Dream says in a much lower, somber voice. He leans in. "And we live on this planet. We breathe on this planet. We see, feel, hear, smell, taste everything on this planet. Everything makes everything. We wouldn't have blue skies without you. The ozone wouldn't exist. Death and decay would be everywhere. This planet wouldn't thrive without you. We need you. So yes, George, you matter."

Even in death, you matter.

You will always matter.

So live, George.

Live for as long as you can.

Before you go, live.

We need you.

You. Matter.

❀ 

"Quackity, do you believe that everything happens for a reason?"

"Hm... that's a tough one, Dream."

"Like... fate? Destiny? Do you believe those things exist?"

"I cannot say for certain."

"I thought you and Karl knew everything! What about the trees and flowers?"

"Aha, well, you give us too much credit. And nature... nature knows a lot, but not everything. It is not a fortune teller or mind reader. However, it sees all. It knows everybody more than anybody else. It knows you. It knows whoever you will meet in the future. It sees the best and worst parts in everything."

"So things don't happen for a reason?"

"Perhaps, or perhaps not. Life is unpredictable like that. Nature is no exception. If something happens to you and you feel like it happened for a reason, who's to say it didn't? You find meaning in your own life, Dream. That is how life goes."

"Life is weird, Quackity."

"Life is beautiful, Dream. You will see for yourself one day."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George is one who believes in second chances; it's just that he's too far gone to get his. His lungs are practically turning to stone, and without an oxygen tank and a tube in his nose, he may as well be dead on the floor.
> 
> One fateful night, he meets Dream, a mysterious boy with a strange affinity for nature, whose world is a little more than supernatural. It's magical.
> 
> (This is a story with VERY long chapters, filled with angst, sadness, and things related to that. tread carefully, but enjoy!!)

TW: Body image judging

"Quackity, why does my body make flowers when I revive something?"

"Dream, what have you been reviving? I thought Karl and I told you to be careful with that!"

"It was just an experiment! I brought back a dead worm, that's it! I barely felt it!"

"Dream..."

"Quackity, please just answer my question."

"Oh, fine. When fairies heal or revive something, there is a transfer of energy. When that transfer occurs, some of it is released, whether it be from your body or from the earth itself, depending on where the transfer occurs. That extra energy takes on the form of flowers or other flora."

"Oh... I mean, I don't really get it, but okay."

"Please, Dream, use that power sparingly. The bigger the organism, the more energy it takes up. Don't exhaust yourself, don't use that power all willy-nilly, okay?"

"No worries, Quackity. I'll be careful!"

❀ 

Punching in random coordinates into Google Earth really does make for good dates, George realizes, especially since he's unable to travel by any other means. Screw airplanes and cruise ships and trains and cars; George has the entire world at his fingertips, literally, and Dream is right next to him, beaming at the locations and their most beautiful sights.

And the thing is, he's completely okay with calling them "dates." He laughs when Sapnap and Techno point at them and giggle at their virtual vacations. Dream is too focused on the sights to notice. But George notices it all, like he always does.

He notices the way Dream furrows his eyebrows and leans into the screen to scrutinize every detail of whatever image they're looking at. He notices Sapnap leaning in to whisper something that's probably benign into Techno's ear, making light fun of George and Dream on their "dates."

He notices Techno's smile and his crooked teeth and the way Sapnap seems to make that smile appear so effortlessly, and he does his best not to raise any eyebrows at it.

George learns that Dream's favorite spot is Paris. He's looked over the same Google images of the possibly-illegally-taken photos of the Eiffel Tower at night time and time again. He never tires of it.

"It must smell awful, though," Dream says. "Most cities tend to smell awful. There's too much pollution."

"That's sad. Fairies can't clean the air?" George whispers, side-glancing Sapnap and Techno, who both have their AirPods in.

Dream shakes his head. "If we could, this planet would have been saved years ago."

George grimaces and thinks of the world blanketed by a smog so thick that the Eiffel Tower no longer shines at night. It would be useless to light up anything. It would be useless to go outside, and everybody, sick or healthy, living or dying, would never leave their houses, lest the smog invade their lungs and kill them instantly.

Thankfully, the world isn't like that just yet.

No, the world is full of places like the woods Dream continues to take him down once in a while. Places like the oasis may not be accessible to humans, but they're there. George knows that now.

So when Dream is occupied looking at the wondrous world they walk upon, George watches him and the little features his face shows, like a movie in real time, right before his eyes.

You absolute masterpiece of a movie, George thinks.

Dream's lips curve into a smile. George would very much like to kiss it.

"George, if you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?"

Something about the question is familiar to George. He's probably been asked this before, whether it be by Dream or his doctor or his parents. He knows this question, he's answered this question before. It's such a Dream question to ask.

George can't remember the last answer he gave. So he thinks of a new one, the one right in front of him.

"Paris."

Because it's Dream's favorite.

Dream chuckles, looking away from the Eiffel Tower and at George instead. "So, go to Paris."

"Alright, punch in the coordinates then."

"No, George." Dream laughs again. "Go to Paris for me someday, and tell me what it's like.Tell me everything you see."

George narrows his eyes at the laptop screen, still displaying an array of photos Paris right there in front of him.

"Don't you dare say no," Dream says.

In the end, George just laughs too, and nods, because he knows Dream won't let this go, won't let George tell him no or deflect the outlandish request with his illness as his scapegoat. As a compromise, he says, "Alright, Dream. Whatever you want."

Dream's face lights up just like the Eiffel Tower does at night. The difference is that George could take a million pictures, and none of them would be illegal.

But they would be just as beautiful.

❀ 

It's the beginning of March when dewdrops instead of frost start sprouting on blades of grass. It's warming up miraculously early. The sun still sets too early for George's liking, but at least it's temperate and it hasn't snowed since the beginning of February.

Dream takes him back through the winding paths of the magical woods, back to the oasis where the air is quite noticeably warmer and the sun shines infinitely brighter. The vibrant colors haven't faded in the slightest. It smells of morning dew and flowers with a hint of citrus, just the perfect amount of sweetness for such a golden moment.

George has decided to coin the term "golden moment" for times where he feels okay. Where the things in front of him aren't so grim, when his head isn't stuck in cynical clouds that only threaten to drag him away from the sun. Thinking back, he's had a lot of golden moments, especially within the last few months.

It's Dream, he thinks. It has to be. There is no other explanation.

The first golden moment he can think of: seeing the oasis for the first time while being able to breathe. Traversing the land on his own two feet. The first walk they took together, when George was uncertain and Dream was hopelessly optimistic.

Then, going to his first ever live show to watch his friends dance. Being able to withstand the clamor and chaos of a rowdy audience. Seeing Dream under those flashing lights, every color.

When George was still uncertain and Dream was proud.

And god, when Dream kissed him. When he still had tear-stained cheeks. When he properly sobbed for the first time in years.

Their first virtual vacation. Seeing Dream so fascinated by the photos, immersed in the online world.

And now, when they're lying on the grass under the gentle rays of the sun, engulfed in the constant hum of nature and the serenity of another golden moment.

George turns onto his side, resting his head on his palm. Dream has his eyes closed, breathing steadily, as if he's sleeping.

"Dream," George whispers.

Dream opens one eye and looks at George with it. "Yeah?"

"Hi."

Dream opens his other eye and laughs, all high and squeaky. He turns onto his side, mirroring George. "Well, hi."

George could look at him all day like this.

"How are you feeling?" George asks.

"Good," Dream answers. "And you?"

"Good."

"That's better than okay."

"I know."

Dream smiles, lifting his hand to George's cheek, cradling it tenderly, fondly. George curls his fingers around Dream's wrist. It fits.

"Is Wilbur here?" George wonders.

Dream nods. "He always is."

"So... he knows I'm here."

"Yeah. He knows. And it's okay, he's cool with it."

"Indeed," says that liquid velvet voice George has only heard once before. He still recognizes it though, as he's never heard anything like it.

When he springs up, there the water nymph is, head poking just above the surface of the calm water. "George, we meet again."

"O-oh... yeah, it's been a while." George laughs awkwardly.

Wilbur regards him with a nod. "I apologize for appearing unannounced, but I heard my name. I was specifically instructed not to intrude whenever George comes by, but—" 

"What? Who told you to do that?" Dream asks.

Wilbur grins. "Well, who else would?"

Dream laughs incredulously. "Oh my god, they didn't."

"They did."

"That's... kind of embarrassing."

"They are just looking out for you and George. I understand you two want your... alone time."

Dream slaps a palm against his forehead. "Wilbur... even when we can't see you, you're always going to be here."

"Just pretend as if I am not here, then," Wilbur says. "All I ask is that you do not defile the soil here with your... activities."

"Wilbur!" Dream shrieks.

All the while, George struggles to contain his laughter, smothering it with the back of his hand.

The slightest sliver of a smile spreads across Wilbur's face before he slinks back underwater, sly and almost invisible.

"I can't believe them," Dream mutters, his face buried behind his hands.

George snickers, grabbing hold of his wrists and prying them off of his face, just so he can look down at him. In the midst of everything, George had somehow ended up straddling him, admiring him from above.

It takes both of them a few moments to realize the position they're in, and once they do, their faces erupt into a furious rosy blush.

Then, Dream laughs.

"You're like the sun, George," he says, relinquishing his wrists to George's grip. "The sun that keeps everything alive."

George scoffs mirthfully, removing his hands from Dream's wrists and leaning back. "You could smother the sun," Dream goes on. "The sun has nothing on you."

George's brain is yelling at him like an aggravated parent, telling him to think realistically; he's never going to be like the sun because the sun is going to last for billions of years and his life's thread is only a few inches long. The sun's rays simply weather the dye that holds it together. He looks down at Dream from above and thinks that he is the sun, a blazing star in the center of his solar system, all-powerful but not blinding.

Dream laces his fingers with George's and smiles. "Got nothing cynical to say to me now?" he teases.

George just chuckles and leans down to kiss him.

The sun has nothing on this golden moment, he thinks.

❀ 

They are mere outlines behind Dream's pink curtains, bodies pressed together underneath a gentle incandescence, casting their purple shadows to the dust fluttering about the room.

"Quackity and Karl are out somewhere," Dream had promised, "so let's take advantage of that."

Not even the moon is bearing witness to this moment in George's life, one that George never thought he would live to see.

Where there is someone kissing him, touching him, eliciting sounds from his mouth that he didn't even know he could make. His body shudders with every stroke across the canvas of his body, as Dream's hands paint magic into his skin.

His eyes struggle to stay open, sheer pleasure forcing them closed. He presses his lips together, willing away every moan that threatens to fall out of him, but there's one instance where Dream's lips meet his neck and he's absolutely done for. Like a million butterfly wings quivering against his skin, a warm wetness trailing down, down, until George truly can't help the whine that escapes him.

"George," Dream whispers, sitting up. His fingers hook under George's cannula. "It's in the way."

"But... Dream, I can't breathe without it—" "Yes, you can," Dream says. "I'm here, aren't I?"

His eyes never leave George's as he removes the thin tube and sets it off to the side with care.

And sure enough, George breathes in.

And out.

No crackles. No hefty weight. No rocks or stone or steel scraping the lining of his lungs. Just clean, fresh air that circulates through him and lifts his body into the sky.

Like he's flying.

"I can really do anything with you, huh?" George thinks aloud with an incredulous chuckle.

Dream laughs back, pulling George back in for a deep kiss. George's hands find their way to Dream's waist, his fingers dipping just below the band of Dream's jeans, and the fairy moans into his mouth.

"You can do anything," Dream reiterates with less amusement and more gravity, like the words he's speaking into the universe are definite. "Anything you want."

George pulls back for a split second, eyeing Dream carefully. Dream just smiles and winks.

"Oh, so you mean..." Dream giggles. "What do I mean, I wonder?"

George scoffs and flips them over, his extra oxygen long forgotten as he pins Dream beneath his weight, much like he'd done back in the forest. Dream, apparently winded, lets out an "oof!"

and gazes up at him, wide-eyed and panting.

"I love how you find meaning in everything," Dream says breathlessly, grabbing George's hand and placing it over his chest, right above his heart.

"Even sexual innuendos?" George tries.

But Dream isn't smiling suggestively; it's a genial kind of smile, a proud one. George has only seen a few of those in his lifetime, because he figures it's hard for people to smile like that around him.

"You see the world for what it is, George," Dream says. His heart pounds in the palm of George's hands. His chest rises and falls smoothly like calm ocean ripples.

For a moment, all lewd thoughts of Dream disintegrate from his head. He gazes at Dream, feeling helpless because everything is just Dream Dream Dream, his magic in George's body, his elegant fingers dancing on his skin, their breaths mingling with one another. George breathes Dream in, cannula-free, because he knows that there are going to be limited moments like these.

Golden moments are scarce, and George knows he will only have so many before his life's thread is cut.

"You're here now," Dream whispers, kissing George's jaw. "And you have no idea how happy I was when I heard you say that for the first time."

"Ah yes, because you were so used to my cynicism," George jokes.

Another kiss. "I could never get used to your cynicism, George. Your cynicism means nothing to me."

Dream lifts his head to meet George's eyes. "I'd rather get used to your hope."

George can't help but smile. Hope, huh?

"Saying that you can do anything, that you're here, that you're alive... things like that. Forgetting that you're ill, even if just for a few moments, to remember that you're still alive. That's what I want to get used to. That, and seeing your beautiful face every day."

George truly laughs at that, pulling Dream in for another playful kiss. When he pulls away, he sighs, and smiles again.

"I suppose I could try," he murmurs.

Dream pecks the tip of his nose and takes his hand. It's so warm, like George is holding a piece of the sun.

The more George touches him, the more he starts to think the fairy may actually be some kind of sun-born god. He feels it in every nerve, every pore, every fiber of his being. When Dream rids himself of his shirt, all the moisture in George's mouth evaporates and he just gawks at the ethereal fairy in front of him, feeling himself paling embarrassingly in comparison.

He crosses his arms over himself and frowns, eyes falling.

"What's wrong?" Dream asks, hands planted on George's thin waist.

"I just..." George refuses to meet Dream's eyes. "It's not pretty. My body."

Dream frowns even more deeply than him. "Now why on earth would you think that?"

"Because..." Because why? Because he can't help his empty appetite? Because he's had tests performed on him that left permanent scars on his ribcage? Because he can't control the way his body looks?

Because he's ill?

All of those answers would be swallowed up by Dream's raging glow.

Drawing in a deep breath, eyes squeezed shut, George lifts his shirt and drops it somewhere on the ground next to them. When he's met with no verbal response, he opens his eyes to see Dream's travel up his body, coming to a halt at his face.

"You really think I care about what your body looks like?" Dream asks rhetorically.

"I've never liked it," George mumbles. "I never really expected anyone else to like it, either."

Dream scoffs, pulling George in by the back of his neck and kissing the side of it. George sighs, latching onto Dream's back as he grinds down.

"You should know... that you are beautiful to at least one person," Dream says. "At every point in your life, there is going to be someone who thinks you're beautiful, regardless of anything.

Do you understand?"

George looks into his eyes again and nods.

"Because I think you're beautiful, George. At this point in your life, I think you're beautiful. Do you understand?"

George nods again, vigorously.

"And there are going to be so many more who think the same." Dream presses his lips to George's neck, leaving a wet, open-mouthed kiss.

"Oh, Dream—" 

Dream lures him back in for another hungry kiss, tongue grazing his bottom lip, asking for entrance. George gladly offers it, parting his lips and letting Dream's tongue inside to collide with his own. He can't help the vice grip he has on Dream's waist; it's so much, feeling somebody like this. Feeling Dream like this. He holds Dream so tightly that Dream's skin imprints itself into his fingertips.

George can't breathe. But this is a kind of breathlessness that he would welcome any day.

❀ 

In an entanglement of sweaty limbs and shaky breaths, Dream rests his hand on George's chest, palm up, and conjures a flower.

George watches as the veins in Dream's bare arm ignite with that familiar soft white glow, the light traveling up to his outstretched palm, flaring out into a deep brown that flourishes into a vibrant purple flower.

"I believe... it's your favorite color," Dream says teasingly. "Take it. It's for you."

George chuckles, lifting his free hand and plucking the flower from Dream's palm. "Does it hurt?" he asks.

"It's kinda like pulling out a splinter," Dream says. "So no, not really."

"I dunno about that, splinters can be pretty damn painful."

"If I were to make an entire tree from my hand, then that would probably hurt. Thankfully I'm not quite there yet."

"Can fairies really create entire trees?"

Dream shrugs, then giggles. "Maybe, maybe not. Quackity and Karl certainly can't.

I've seen them try."

"If fairies could create trees, the world might not have forest crises everywhere."

"Unfortunately, fairies are not saviors of the Earth, George." Dream sighs, flipping his hand palm-down on George's chest. "Fairies aren't as powerful as you seem to think they are."

"Well, they're certainly more powerful than humans."

"Mm." Dream's fingers curl into a loose fist, positioned directly above George's heart.

Just take it, George thinks, placing his own hand over Dream's. He intertwines their fingers and looks over.

Dream's eyes are already closed.

But that's okay, because George imagines how tired he must be after... that. He'd taken the reins despite not knowing what he was doing either, had George a melted puddle of pliable goo in his hands, guided both of them to the climaxes of their lives, and made George's heart pound with something other than a lack of oxygen.

George's eyes follow suit, the darkness beneath his eyes accompanied by that soft white light, blooming into violet.

❀ 

When George was hospitalized over winter break, his lung functioning was at sixty-five percent, which he considers to be pretty good. His worst was forty-one, when he was sixteen and couldn't go a day without feeling like he actually was dead. A barely breathing corpse.

The last week of February, he had another spirometry test, to "keep an eye on it," as his mother put it. It was sixty-one. Not too shabby. His chest hurt after he did it, but not much else.

The last week of March, he has another. He prepares mentally, breathing in, expecting another sixty-something percent result when coughs begin to wrack his body.

The technician, apparently unexpecting, fumbles to get George back on track. George's chest bursts into flames, the tube he's supposed to breathe from long forgotten as his throat burns to expel the air stuck in the cracks of his lungs.

There isn't much he can do but wait it out. So that's what he does. He takes a few gulps of water once his coughs simmer down, clearing his throat and blinking away the tears in his eyes, sealing his lips around the tube once more.

He shuts his eyes, pouring all of his energy into the breaths he has to take as he snuffs out the coughs that threaten to take him again.

The relief he feels once he's able to remove the clamp on his nostrils is unparalleled. He lets out a few smaller coughs, sticking his precious cannula back in and taking several, more oxygen-supported breaths.

The results make George's stomach plummet.

From sixty-one, to forty-nine.

"And that was the highest percentage," the technician, Eret, tells him. "Has anything changed recently? Have you taken up any smoking, any drugs, any changes in your diet or daily activity?"

George shakes his head. His days pass by like all of his days before. Every today becomes a tomorrow.

And nothing changes in between.

"Could just be a flare-up, right?" George suggests.

Eret sighs. "It's a possibility, yes."

"But it's too uncertain," George finishes for her.

She nods, her face crestfallen. "How often do you normally have flare-ups?"

"Um..." How should he try to explain that there's a fairy that keeps his symptoms at bay and therefore he's had a lot less flare-ups than he used to?

"Once every... few months?" George tries.

"So the last time you had a flare-up was at the beginning of January, which led to your hospitalization."

"W-well, it wasn't really anything. I was just having a coughing fit and my mother got really worried and took me to the hospital. I really don't think it was a flare-up, per se."

The technician squints, her lips pursed in thought. "Have you been feeling any other symptoms?

Aches, loss of appetite, more difficulty breathing than usual, worsening coughs..." "Well, all that stuff is pretty normal," George says. "But nothing's really worse, I guess. M-maybe I could try the test again? See if the results are any different? Could've just been bad timing, you know? Darn lungs acting up." He laughs weakly, punctuating the pathetic joke with a jab at his ribs.

So Eret performs the test again, when George's breaths have evened out as much as they can. The highest result is fifty-five.

"See! Not too bad. Definitely better than forty-nine," George says with an attempt at a laugh.

Eret just continues to stare, frowning. "It's still a decrease from your result in January."

"But not by much. I'm fine."

Eret sighs, defeated. "You've managed flare-ups before, correct?"

"Yup, rest and breathing exercises, got it."

"Increase your oxygen intake," Eret says, glancing at his tank.

"Yup."

"You have accommodations at school, right? Don't overdo anything. Take your time, and once you feel better, then you can resume your usual activities."

"Yup."

With a dubious look, Eret writes something down on her clipboard. "Take your meds," she says flatly, turning towards her monitor. "I'm sending a request to refill your prescription now."

"Mhm."

Her parting look to George is hesitant and a little sad, but George is used to seeing looks like that. From everybody.

At the pharmacy, he gets another look from the tech. How could someone so young be dying so quickly?

When he gets back to the dorm, he slams the door behind him, startling a studying Sapnap. "What's up?" he asks, sliding his headphones off, some EDM beat blaring from the speakers.

"A flare-up, apparently," George mutters, flopping back down on his bed, spirometer in his hand.

"What?" Sapnap pauses the music and throws his headphones on his desk, turning his chair in George's direction. "Dude, what's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. I feel fine, I swear. My lung function just decreased a bit, that's all."

"You had a spirometry test, I assumed?"

George nods. "I started coughing before the first test, which obviously affected the results. At first it was forty-nine percent, but the tech did it again and I got fifty-five! I had sixty-one percent in January. My lung function changes all the time. It's really nothing."

Sapnap narrows his eyes, giving him that same look Eret had given him, if not a bit more...hostile. "So... you got your very own take-home spirometer, I see."

"Mm." George makes a dramatic display of sticking the tube into his mouth and inhaling. The blue piston inside floats pathetically.

Sapnap stares blankly. "That... wasn't very impressive."

George coughs, setting the device down beside him. "It's normal."

"Haven't seen you doing that the entire time I've known you."

"It's annoying," George says. "Parents made me do it all the time back home."

"For good reason." Sapnap sounds exasperated. "Maybe you should, I don't know, start taking this a little more seriously?" Those are his last concerned words, buried under a layer of frustration, before he turns back around and resumes the music.

George turns his head and glares down at the dinky little thing. He's amassed plenty back home, mere memorabilia of all of his hospital visits tucked away in the corner of his closet. He might as well be a spirometer collector. He had one packed when he moved to the dorms, had some given to him during his checkups... and never used them.

[George] 

hey do u wanna watch me breathe i swear it's fun 

[Dream] 

k im omw 

❀

"If you're breathing in... why is the thingy going up?"

"It's called a piston. And fuck if I know."

❀ 

George feels like he's under the supreme vigilance of his parents again now that Dream knows about the little device. He makes George bring it with him when he goes over, has George bring it to the oasis when they take trips there, watches the little ball go up when George breathes in despite not knowing the physics of it.

And George is starting to grow frustrated.

He keeps it in because he knows that Dream is doing this out of concern. Because everything everyone does is out of concern for the dying boy. But what's the point? No matter what, that little blue indicator is going to start floating lower and lower, because George's lungs are getting shittier and shittier. And as much as Dream makes him feel better, he knows that his lungs are still scarred to no end. His oxygen levels are still atrocious no matter how painless it is to breathe around Dream.

So why is Dream bothering?

It was actually quite cute at first, because Dream watched with rapt attention and wide, curious eyes as the apparatus measured George's oxygen intake, but it became more of a chore, more of a demand, and George started to feel trapped again.

Trapped within his own walls, running his fingers along every surface, waiting for something to change.

George is slightly dizzy by the time he finishes his fifth exercise of the day. Dream is curled up by his side, watching as he dozes off. George checks the time; it's only ten thirty.

"Thought fairies don't need to sleep much," George murmurs.

Dream stirs, humming. "It's been a rough week."

"I don't blame you, midterms are hell."

Dream chuckles, then yawns. "You did great today, George. I know you hate your exercises, but... it's important."

George sighs as he sets the spirometer down on the nightstand. "I just... don't really see why. It's just monitoring my air intake. I'm basically watching my lungs go to shit."

"You need to exercise your lungs. It really helps to increase, or at least stabilize lung efficiency."

"You know that?"

"The internet." George feels Dream grin.

"You really looked it up?"

Dream nods. "Of course I did, George. I looked it up, researched your condition, because there needs to be someone who can take care of you if you won't take care of yourself."

George blinks and stares up at the ceiling, finding himself at a loss for words. "When you can't see a doctor... and feel like your treatments are pointless because you'll die in the end anyway... there should be someone that makes sure you do them." Dream yawns again, fingers tangling in the fabric of George's shirt as George slinks down from his upright position, meeting Dream at face-level.

George gazes into Dream's eyes, speechless. "And I want to give you as much time as possible, George," Dream whispers. "I would bend time for you if I could."

"Don't say that, Dream," George pleads quietly, placing his hand over Dream's.

Dream flattens his palm against George's chest and inhales. George follows suit.

"I'll do my treatments and exercises, okay? I will." George kisses the back of Dream's hand, as he's done plenty of times before.

Dream looks up at him with droopy eyes and kisses his knuckles back.

How could George be so frustrated when Dream is just trying his best to extend his time on this planet?

How could George think the breathing exercises are pointless when he knows deep down that they aren't?

That thread of his life, it's a fraying tightrope that he's walking. He's wearing high heels and a straitjacket and there's lava bubbling below. The one thing keeping him from stumbling? A force that cannot be seen, defying gravity, defying the laws of nature, pulling his body up from above.

And he continues to walk despite all the odds stacked against him.

That time he's spending above the lava, he needs to cherish it.

There's only so much heat that line can take before it snaps.

❀ 

7: He doesn't try to give himself more time. If I were him, I would fight until the very end, live as many seconds as I can before I go. But I'm hoping, praying to anything or anyone that will listen, that he finds his own purpose for going on. Not mine. Not Sapnap's or Techno's. Not his parents'.

His very own.

❀ 

"Will I be able to control what kind of flower comes out? Every time I try it's some random one! I was trying to make a rose and it came out as a daisy."

"You can make any kind of flower you'd like, Dream. The power develops over time. One day, you will be able to envision the kind of flower you'd like to create and bring it to life."

"Will I know when?"

"You'll know it when it happens. It'll be one of the best surprises of your life."


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George is one who believes in second chances; it's just that he's too far gone to get his. His lungs are practically turning to stone, and without an oxygen tank and a tube in his nose, he may as well be dead on the floor.
> 
> One fateful night, he meets Dream, a mysterious boy with a strange affinity for nature, whose world is a little more than supernatural. It's magical.
> 
> (This is a story with VERY long chapters, filled with angst, sadness, and things related to that. tread carefully, but enjoy!!)

TW: Blood (later on in the chapter)

"Dream, how many times have I told you to be careful with that power?"

"B-but Quackity! It was in pain! It was going to die if I didn't do something!"

"Dream... that is how nature is. And it is best if we don't interfere with the process."

"It's not fair... it's not fair! How come we get to live for basically forever but others don't?"

"That is just how things are, Dream. But I hope you realize that we are not invincible. Things... can kill us too."

❀ 

Dream makes George bring his spirometer to their library dates. The first time Techno sees him operating the thing, he stares for a solid two minutes.

"So... what does that thing do, exactly?"

"It measures how much air you breathe in and exercises your lungs. Gotta keep the air flowing as much as possible," Sapnap says without looking up from his notes.

"Oh yeah, I forgot you're in medicine. Smart boy." Techno chuckles and pats Sapnap on the back.

Sapnap still doesn't spare him a glance, eyes laser-focused on his studies.

"Doesn't really take medical studies to know that," Dream mutters, just out of earshot. His eyes are glued to George, watching observantly as the blue lingers just below halfway up the indicator.

His bottom lip is sucked in; George knows that means he's nervous.

And for good reason. George's noticed it too—that indicator just keeps getting lower no matter how many times he "exercises."

When he exhales, his eyes sting and he shakes his head to dispel the dizziness, shoving the cannula back into his nose.

"Fuck," he curses quietly, setting the apparatus off to the side and letting out a single cough.

That makes Sapnap raise his head. "What's wrong?"

Both George and Dream look over at him, his eyes riddled with worry. Techno's eyes flit between all of them, not knowing where to land.

What should George tell him? That his oxygen intake isn't improving? That it's staying stagnant? Lie and say that it's getting better?

Or tell the truth, and say that it might be getting worse?

"It just hurts when I finish." George settles for a half-lie, because while it does send his brain spiraling a bit after he's done, he knows there's more to it—it's not supposed to hurt, not that much. 

But whenever George pulls away from that mouth piece and lets out whatever infinitesimal amount of air he manages to get in, he always coughs, his head pounds, and the world flips and turns like a die in a tornado.

"Is it supposed to?" Techno asks.

"It can, if he's not doing it right," Sapnap says, a somewhat biting remark.

"Or, because my lungs are shit and can't hold that much oxygen and this thing is forcing me to breathe in what I can't."

"Dude, you know that's not how it works—" "Then tell me how it works, Sapnap," George snaps back. Techno's eyes fly wide open. "Tell me what I don't know about my condition."

"I'm sure you know plenty about your condition, George-ah. That's why you completely neglect to take care of yourself, right?"

"Oh fuck off, Sapnap!"

"Guys, please stop," Dream pleads weakly, his fingers wrapping awkwardly around George's wrist. "Please."

George scoffs, tearing his wrist away from Dream's hand, throwing his oxygen tank straps over his shoulders, and storming out of the library. With each footfall, he feels furious lightning bolts shooting up his legs, his lungs brewing up a storm that he expels once the spring air hits him.

Burying his face in his elbow, he lets the barrage of coughs out until he feels a pair of hands slam into him.

"George! Please don't run off like that!" Dream cries. He has George's spirometer sandwiched between his arm and ribcage.

George's coughing stops almost instantly. Dream is panting as he spins George back around, eyes frantic and teary. "Please... let's just go home, okay? Quackity can make you some tea, it'll help calm you down."

George really can't ignore the fragility of Dream's state. He knows that him being in Dream's life must be taking a mental toll, as it is with just about anybody. Dream has been at the forefront of all of George's frustrations, his triumphs, his snide remarks and cynical jokes. Dream is the one who puts up with his bullshit the most, and when Dream is practically begging him to take a step back, to breathe, how could George deny him?

Swallowing, he nods and lets Dream take his hand and guide him back to his home.

❀ 

George hated vegetables as a kid, though he had to adapt to them when his mother insisted on cooking "healthy" food for him once he was diagnosed. His disdain for them never abandoned him, but at least he's learned to eat them without gagging.

Quackity and Karl's, however, George could eat endless amounts of, if he had a normal appetite. He accredits it to the freshness and whatever spices and magic they infuse it with.

His portion is considerably lesser compared to the last time he'd eaten at their house. Quackity eyes his platter warily.

"I am sorry to hear about your altercation with your friend," he says. "But... I imagine it is difficult for him to understand your struggles, just as it is difficult for you to understand why he feels frustrated with you."

George pokes at his uneaten vegetables with a fork, eyes trained on the rainbow of greens and purples and oranges. It smells good, truly, but his stomach is churning and he feels like he might cry, his throat itching with lingering coughs and unspoken words.

"I just... I am taking care of myself. As best as I can, I guess." He mumbles that last part, feeling his shoulders shrinking in. "I'm not neglecting to take care of myself. I don't understand why he thinks that."

"Unfortunately, I do not know enough about your friendship with this person..." "Sapnap."

"Ah, yes, Sapnap. I do not know him or what he's seen of you. But think, George, there must be a reason why he thinks that. He would not think that for no reason, hm?"

George glances up just the tiniest bit to see Quackity regarding him kindly, chewing idly. "I will make us some tea. Dream, would you accompany me to the apothecary?" He swallows, gracefully wiping his mouth with a pristine white cloth, and motions for Dream to follow him with a nod of his head. George watches, puzzled, as the pair walks off, noticing the tired look in Dream's eyes.

Karl sighs. "George."

George turns his attention to Dream's other guardian. "I'm... really sorry for bringing all this here."

"Ah, do not apologize for feeling emotions, George." Karl chuckles lightly. "Your frustrations are valid. But all of that aside, how are you? Have you been drinking the potion?"

George shakes his head. "I'm saving it."

"Oh? For what?" Karl asks with genuine curiosity, maybe with a hint of confusion.

"If things get really bad. If I have an attack that I can't stop."

"Well, we wouldn't want it to reach that point now, would we?"

"I had one... just one, though. I took two sips. The attack stopped almost instantly."

Karl smiles, nodding approvingly. "That is the unparalleled power of Quackity and I's most potent concoction."

"Really? The most potent?"

"Mm. As Quackity said, it takes a long time and a lot of magic to make, but it works wonders."

"I'm... still so honored that you'd share it with me."

Karl sighs, his smile fading. "I highly suggest you make use of it instead of saving it, however. Magic does not last forever. Much like food or supplements in the human world, it is perishable, and its effects will lessen over time. It does not expire that quickly, but even so, I would not wait or hesitate to use it."

"I just... I'm saving it for when it gets bad—" "I understand your thinking, George. Truly, I do. But magic has its limits. There is only so much that potion can stop."

Then what's the point of it?

George lowers his gaze again, head hung in shame. He can't believe he's thinking like this in front of the powerful, generous fairy who contributed so much magic to make it, only to share it with someone who isn't even using it.

Karl sighs again. "Well, George, it is your potion, after all. You decide when you drink it."

George nods and sets his fork down. "You aren't hungry?" Karl questions.

"It's a symptom," George mumbles.

"You ate less than last time. Is everything okay?"

George shrugs. "I've just been having a few flare-ups lately. It's nothing new."

"A few? You seemed to be doing quite well when we first met."

George grimaces internally, imagining his mouth zipping shut as he swallows the words he knows he should say. They hurt more than his chest when he coughs.

The silence gets the message across, however, and Karl acknowledges it with an impassive hum.

"Perhaps a sip of the potion before you go to sleep at night will do you some good," is the last thing Karl says to him before Quackity and Dream return to the dining room. The eldest is holding a fine china teapot, while Dream carries the plates and teacups.

The tea is just hot enough, not scalding but not tepid either. George drinks half the cup straight away, the warmth of the magic-infused liquid making its rounds through his weary bones. It tastes of honey and something woody and floral, with a touch of citrusy tang. George had no clue such a combination of flavors could work so well together.

His nerves are soothed, but his spiraling mind certainly isn't.

I'm sorry for taking up your oxygen.

I'm sorry for wasting your generosity.

I'm sorry sorry sorry.

It brings him back to when he was first diagnosed, when he apologized profusely to his parents for a disease that nobody could control.

For all the money you have to spend on me just to keep me from dying sooner.

For putting up a fight when I had to do my spirometry exercises.

For making jokes that made you feel hopeless instead of cheerful.

Sorry sorry sorry.

Later that night, when he and Dream have parted ways and he's lying in bed, Sapnap listening to some lo-fi mix to block him out, he stares up at the ceiling as Karl's potion makes its way through his body and wonders just how far gone he will have to be for fairy magic to be absolutely useless.

❀ 

George doesn't go to class the next day. His body is too sluggish, and Sapnap has already left for his own classes. There is nobody to reprimand him or interrogate him or berate him.

It's okay, though. He figures he's already doing that to himself.

❀ 

Dream shows up with a blueberry smoothie in one hand and a stemmed, thornless red rose in the other. George has just enough energy to lug himself out of bed and answer the door.

"Figured we could watch a movie or something," he says, smiling.

They watch the cinematic rendition of The Fault in Our Stars at George's suggestion, the bright glare of George's laptop keeping both of them awake through the entirety of it.

"A little infinity," Dream breathes, further burrowing his head into the crook of George's neck. He yawns. "I like that."

"As cheesy as it is... I agree." George sniffles, smiling at Hazel's teary, unnecessarily profound declaration of love. "Though I feel like high schoolers really don't speak like that."

"I wouldn't know, since I was homeschooled."

"Well, so was I."

The two laugh at that.

"It's kind of amazing, though. What words can do. Be as profound and pretentious as you want. Be as senseless and inane as you want. Somebody will find meaning in what you say." Dream chuckles, removing his head from its cozy spot and taking George's chin with two fingers. "You know, George... I don't want to live forever."

George frowns. "I mean... I wouldn't either, but I'd certainly want to live longer than whatever number I'll inevitably end up with."

Dream sighs through his nose and kisses him softly, slowly, as if time doesn't exist and George has as much of it as he wants.

"There is so much beauty in humanity, I think," Dream murmurs. "So much beauty and tragedy in finite lives. Sometimes... I don't really think you need an infinity."

"It's a good feeling, though. It's a nice word, too. Infinity. Everlasting. Forever."

"Mm. But what's the point of living forever if you don't feel like you're infinite? What's the point if you're just hollow because there's so much that's missing?"

"Dream..." "Quackity and Karl have each other for life, George. But where will I go when you're gone?

What will I do?"

"Dream, please don't..." But Dream's tears are already falling like perfect raindrops onto a spring.

"I'm not your infinity. I'm not," George chokes out, his own tears surfacing, spilling over onto his cheeks and cannula. "You get to live as long as you want. I don't."

"A life without you would be so empty, George. Do you know how much you carved yourself into my existence?" Dream grabs George by the wrist, his clutch feather-light as he presses George's palm against his beating heart. He laughs almost spitefully, his heartbeats matching the bumps of his laughter. "I would grow an entire garden for you."

"Don't... don't say that, Dream. I can't take it."

But Dream's words sound familiar, as if his question was once asked by someone else.

"What will you do when I'm gone?"

Neither of them know.

Maybe, if they ask the question enough, the answer will come.

And maybe George could be saved.

But the universe is cruel like that.

❀ 

"Good thing fairies don't need that much sleep. Sleeping on Sapnap's bed was a nightmare in and of itself."

With how quickly Dream falls asleep once the laptop is shut, George never would have guessed.

He takes three sips of Karl's potion. The bottle is half empty.

❀ When George wakes up, Dream is gone. Presumably off to his morning classes, but George isn't too sure. Across the room, Sapnap is fast asleep under his comforter, snoring softly.

The rose that Dream had brought to him last night is placed next to him, but the crimson of it has faded into a muddy brown, and the petals droop, nearly lifeless.

Much like the lavender rose, it disintegrates when George picks it up, as if Dream hadn't left a trace.

There's the cup that once held the blueberry smoothie sitting in the garbage bin. There's the magic potion given to him by Dream's guardian. But other than those things, it's as if Dream was never here.

As if every trace of Dream is just gone.

George rests his hand over his beating heart. It's nothing like Dream's.

Because Dream is healthy. Dream isn't even human; he's a mystical being who doesn't age, can live forever, can talk to plants and animals, can use his magic to keep George from drowning yet can't bend time.

George wishes he could, though, to rewind the tape back to last night so he can feel Dream's heart in his hand once more.

A heart that truly beats, one that isn't just there and pumping poorly oxygenated blood to a barely functioning body.

❀ 

[Dream] Hey how are you feeling??

Sorry i had class and had to leave :/ didn't wanna wake u up 

[George] 

Eh, still not feeling too hot but it's ok I'm doing my class online today Too tired to move

[Dream] 

Yeah i feel that :/ i've been pretty tired too lately I'll stop by later, yeah? Want me to bring anything?

[George] 

You already know what i want haha

[Dream]

A blueberry smoothie, got it Also, I felt pretty inspired after last night. How should I profess my love for you?

[George]

Um... what?

[Dream] 

Because mark my words, George I will fall in love with you someday 

[George] 

Someday...?

[Dream] 

Just answer my question 

[George] 

Uh...... i guess a letter would be cool I've always wanted a love letter Handwritten and everything

[Dream] 

You got it 

❀ 

As if those text messages were never written, Dream makes the trek to George's dorm, knocks on his door, and hands him his beloved blueberry smoothie and a bouquet of red roses.

"So you're not going to profess your love for me now?" George asks with an arched brow, inhaling what he can of the flowers.

"Not now, no. Because I'm not in love with you yet." Dream hops onto George's bed and scoots over, making room for the actual owner of said bed.

"Yet." George repeats the word, befuddled.

"Yet," Dream affirms. "Just give me a little more time, okay? I'll write you a letter and tell you how much I love you. Won't be as cheesy and profound as it was in that movie we watched, but it'll be something."

It'll be something.

George watches Dream warily for the rest of the night, sparing several side glances while The Notebook serves as mere background noise, a simple soundtrack to the real-life movie George is living, watching with his own two eyes.

"I'll be seeing you," says the old man through a blue filter, hand in hand with his longtime lover.

"It would be nice to grow old," George muses.

"Neither of us get to," Dream says, barely audible.

George looks over to see Dream gazing up at him from his designated spot in George's neck, the specks in his eyes rendered blue.

"But... I get to have you in the time you have left," Dream says, intertwining their fingers and pressing a familiar kiss to the back of George's hand. He likes doing that a lot, George has noticed. "I get to grow old with you."

George scoffs, but before he can add anything, Dream continues with, "It all depends on your definition of old. If old is tomorrow, or two weeks from now, or three months from now, or two, four, fifty years from now. I will grow old with you, George."

"You say that like you can bend time," George quips, his mouth lifting into a half smile.

"I'll do whatever I can to live the future I want with you," Dream whispers. "No matter how near or far that future is."

A puff of air leaves George's nostrils in what might be a laugh. Dream is just barely smiling as his eyes slip shut again. When George checks the clock on his laptop, the pixels say it's 9:32 PM.

❀

"You talk as if we're gonna get married someday."

"So what? It could happen."

"Doesn't mean it will."

"But it could. Will you marry me, George?"

"Oh, shut up."

"See? We're already bickering like we're married. I say we tie the knot tomorrow."

"You haven't even professed your love for me yet."

"Oh. Right."

❀ 

On a day that George feels well enough to go to class, he waits for Dream to text him the classic i'm coming over and i'm bringing you a blueberry smoothie, but the message never comes.

Not coming over today? George sends.

Half an hour later, there is still no response. George is so worried that he could start biting his nails again. He had to kick the habit after he was diagnosed because he didn't need another part of him gone.

The sun has already begun to set when George makes the reckless decision to leave the dorm on his own and make his way to Dream's house. He figures if Dream isn't coming to him, he will go to Dream. That's just how it's supposed to work.

He stops at the top step, his lungs already beginning to struggle. Luckily, he'd prepared in advance, packing Karl's potion and an extra large bottle of water, and he takes a quick swig of the potion before knocking on the door. The bottle is just a little less than halfway empty.

Quackity is the one who opens the door, dressed in a white robe and pink bunny slippers, his black hair pushed back behind a matching pink fuzzy headband. It takes George a lot not to laugh.

"Oh, hello, George. Is there something I can help you with?" Quackity peers past him. "Dream isn't with you?"

"Um... no, he isn't. He wasn't responding to my texts, so I came to see if he was here."

"Oh, no. He went down to the oasis quite a while ago and hasn't come back yet. I thought that perhaps he'd met up with you."

George shakes his head. "I was just... worried. S-sorry for bothering you."

"Ah, don't be so apologetic, George. If anything, it is reassuring that you worry about him."

"You know... Dream told me that fairies don't need a lot of sleep."

Quackity tilts his head curiously. "No, typically not. Some don't need to sleep at all. Fairies don't sleep to recover physical energy like humans do. It's more of a means of recovering magic."

George's brows knit together, a frown beginning to form on his face. "Recovering... magic?"

Quackity nods, his expression somewhat mimicking George's as he steps aside. "Would you like to come in?"

Wordlessly, George steps inside the familiar household, its pungent floral aroma flooding his senses instantly. It feels bigger, emptier almost.

"I figured it would be more comfortable to talk inside. So... why do you ask?" Quackity inquires.

"Dream has been sleeping a lot, I've noticed," George tells him. "Whenever we're together, we'll usually watch a movie and he'll fall asleep. Sometimes he doesn't even make it halfway through."

"That's... odd." Quackity's frown deepens, perfectly shaped brows knitting together. "Dream hardly sleeps in his own bed. He's usually up studying or at the oasis with Wilbur. And you say he's been falling asleep?"

"Yeah, really early and really easily."

Quackity draws in a deep breath, his frown evening out into an expression that's borderline frightening. His eyes fall closed as he releases his bated breath, jaw visibly tense. "George... has Dream been using his magic around you?"

"Huh? I mean, sometimes he'll make a flower for me, but that's about it."

"That does not require that much magic energy to warrant sleep," Quackity says. "Has he been... healing you?"

"Um... yes? It's his natural healing aura."

Quackity raises an eyebrow. "Natural healing aura?"

George's heart feels like it stops at the hints of suspicion in Quackity's tone.

"W-well, yeah, that's what he told me. He said that he can bring back small organisms from the dead and that it takes up energy, and..." Dream can bring small organisms back from the dead.

Dead.

"Is... is that not it?" George asks, his voice akin to a pin dropping onto a glass floor.

"There's no such thing as a natural healing aura, George," Quackity says, his face and tone solemn.

"Fairies have naturally soothing auras, where people and animals may feel calm around them, but not natural healing auras. Any amount of healing requires magic and energy." He takes another deep breath as his eyes flit down to George's oxygen tank. "Life energy."

"Wh-what does that mean?" George asks in a squeak, his entire body's worth of muscle squeezing taut inside him. He can feel the dread like jolts of electricity surging through him, his stomach tying in an infinity of knots.

"When a fairy heals or revives something, it requires the fairy's life energy. Sleeping is a way to recover this type of energy, but when used often or in large amounts, it begins to take a toll on the fairy's body. Fairies can become comatose if they use this power too much."

Comatose.

"That is why I'm asking if he's been healing you. You say that he's been falling asleep easily, yes?

Was it not like that before?"

George shakes his head, his heart running laps in his chest. "N-not at first... he was fine at first, I swear! When we met, it was so easy to breathe around him. He told me it was his natural healing aura, b-but he wouldn't fall asleep... not as easily as he does now, anyway. What does that mean? What... what is he doing?"

Quackity's solemn expression twists into one that looks like how George's insides feel.

"He's using his power to heal you. That much is obvious."

"But his body produces flowers when he heals things, right? I've seen him do it... he stopped one of my coughing attacks and his body made a flower. I saw that happen. But after that one time... all the flowers he made for me were..." George watches Quackity's face remaining unchanged and stops talking.

"I... suppose it is possible for a fairy to suppress that release of energy..." Quackity sighs. "Allow me to explain it in full. When a fairy heals something, there is a transfer of life energy from the fairy to the organism. During that transfer, some of the life energy is released, and it takes on the form of a flower.

I have never seen that not happen. However... I suppose that it is possible to control when that release of energy occurs. It is a possibility he conceals it most of the time when he is around you. And I suspect that the flowers he gives to you when you two are together... are actually the products of him healing you."

"B-but he doesn't always give me flowers—" "That's what I meant earlier, when I said that it is possible he's been controlling when his body produces the flower. For all we know, he could wait until after you fall asleep, or do it behind your back and hide whatever flower his body produces."

George swallows a heavy lump. "S-so... you're saying that Dream has been using his life energy to..." "To keep your symptoms at bay, yes," Quackity says, but he doesn't sound quite finished. If anything, his face grows more and more troubled. "But... for him to be doing it consistently, constantly, and the fact that he is beginning to fall asleep easily and more frequently is leading me to a much more... harrowing conclusion."

George's gut begins to gurgle, the lack of food in his stomach jumping around inside him, sending shockwaves up to his heart and lungs, running the air from his tank stale. His heart begins to sink into the acid, all moisture abandoning his mouth as Quackity tells him the conclusion that has been on the backburner of George's mind from the day Sapnap had lost it on him.

"I am worried that your condition has worsened, and that it is requiring more of Dream's energy to keep subdued. When you were here last... Karl and I both noticed you were not eating as much, and that Dream seemed a lot less peppy than usual." George winces. He remembers that day all too well.

A few flare-ups is what George had told Karl.

But even George knew then that the amount of flare-ups he was having wasn't normal. It still isn't.

"There is a balance to everything, George. In order to keep your body functioning properly, or, as properly as it can function, Dream needs to provide the right amount of life energy needed to sustain that. And if he's continuously using more of it..." "Then my body is getting worse," George finishes for him.

"I... am afraid so."

"So... Dream is effectively killing himself to keep me alive." The words are bitter as soon as they leave George's mouth and he swallows heavily, wishing he could take them back.

But even then, it wouldn't make a difference. The truth is still the truth, and it's spelled out right in front of him, clear as day.

"That is quite a harsh way to put it, but... yes."

George scoffs, a fury unlike any other rising up inside him. "That fucking idiot."

"George—" George shakes his head firmly. "Dream is hurting himself to keep me alive, when he and I know both very damn well I'm not going to live no matter what he does. So why is he bothering?"

"I cannot answer that, George. You know that."

Biting his lip, George swings around, his oxygen tank clanging as it slams against the doorway, but it's not like it matters anymore anyway.

"George, please, wait—" "If you can't answer that, then I'm going to ask him myself. Where is he?"

Quackity pauses, the internal debate visible on his anxious face. "He's at the oasis, isn't he?

Sleeping there, I presume," George says.

Slowly, Quackity nods. "It is... a place that can help recover magical energy at a faster rate. I guess that's why he's been taking more trips down there lately..." Suppressing a groan, George turns on his heels, his lungs burning with both a lack of oxygen and fervent anger as he storms off in the direction of the clearing.

Each step is hell against his feet. His head is pounding, blurring his vision, sending more sparks of stinging electricity throughout his body. It's nothing like the sparks he felt when he lay in bed with Dream, or when Dream's fingertips roamed his body for the first time, or when Dream kissed him until they both fell asleep. George had been unsuspecting then.

But now, it's all that fills his mind.

Dream has been killing himself to keep George alive.

He's seeing red in scarlet flashes rather than soft Georgeguine hues, the vibrance of those red roses having faded as soon as the petals disappeared between his fingers. And now, it feels as if they had meant nothing at all.

Those flowers had been nothing but byproducts of George's withering life.

The clearing is vacant when George arrives, and there are still no messages from Dream. That's fine, though, because George will stay here as long as he has to in order to get his answer. It's what he deserves after all this time of living a prolonged death. He'll stand here until his legs give out if that's what it comes to.

Because in the end, it won't matter.

Nothing will.

Late spring evening air is much chillier than George remembers it to be. He waits and waits, until the sun is a glowing semicircle cut in half by the horizon, periwinkle clouds dotting the sky, and a fairy emerges from the clearing.

And he stops in his tracks at the sight of George, the dying man with nothing else to lose.

"Wh... George, what are you doing here?"

George swallows, lifting his chin, lip curling. "Why didn't you tell me you were spending your life energy to keep me alive?"

Dream's eyes widen, his shoulders noticeably stiffening as the question seeps into his ears.

"I... wh—h-how did you..." 

"Quackity told me," George says, biting back a growl. "I went looking for you, because you weren't responding to my texts. And that's what Quackity told me. That's why you've been sleeping so much. And I bet that you're fucking exhausted, and you spent all day today at the oasis trying to recover. Am I right?"

George watches the lump in Dream's throat go up, then down. His gaze falls to the growing grass beneath their feet.

"George... please, just... let me—" "Explain?" George cuts him off. 

"What else is there to explain, Dream? You've been killing yourself trying to keep a dying man alive. There's nothing else to it."

"George, please—" Dream sniffles, his eyes flying back up frantically, glassed over with tears.

How did they appear so soon?

"I'm not... I'm not killing myself to keep you alive. I've been healing you. That's it."

"That's it? When are you going to stop lying to me?" George reels in his voice before it can get too loud, before his lungs expel more air than he can afford. 

"You know what else Quackity told me?That my condition is getting worse. And you know that, right? You know that I'm getting worse. It's why you've been sleeping so much. I'm sure you can feel it, when you give your life energy to me."

Dream breathes in deeply, a few tears slipping past his shut eyes.

"I'm getting worse. Aren't I? Am I on the brink of death, Dream? Please, tell me about my current life status. I'm sure you know a lot about it," George bites facetiously, the words like poison dripping through his teeth.

"You're..." Dream stops himself, shaking his head. "Please, stop, George. I can't..."

"Can't what, Dream? Why the hell are you trying to keep me alive when it's fucking pointless? I'm dying, Dream. No amount of fairy magic can stop that from happening. And you... you sacrificing your own energy to prolong the process?" George scoffs again, shaking his own head in disbelief. "You're an idiot, Dream."

"You don't know anything, George!" Dream exclaims. The tears have multiplied tenfold, snot accumulating under his nostrils. "It's not pointless, George! It's not! Stop acting as if everything we do for you is pointless!"

We.

Everybody tries hard for the dying.

Dream, Sapnap, Techno, Quackity, Karl, and his very own parents.

Keeping him alive, prolonging the inevitable.

It's all so pointless.

Because really, what's the point in filling the rest of George's time on Earth with tests and needles and spirometers and tank-produced oxygen? 

He would much rather die than live in pain. And he's certain he isn't the only one who feels this way.

Just let me die, Dream.

Yet he doesn't dare say it out loud.

Dream takes a cautious step forward. George takes a step back.

"Don't," he warns with an extended arm. "Don't come near me."

"George..." "I don't want this anymore, Dream." George sighs, feeling as if his memories with Dream are being stolen from him. What was all of that time? Dream wasting his life away trying to save one on the fringes? George was barely living to begin with. He doesn't need another barely-living person to worry about. 

"Stop healing me. I'm done."

"George, I just... I wanted... more time for you." Dream hiccups and sniffles, wiping away his tears with his sleeve. A fruitless effort, as more tears replace the ones now stained on his shirt. "I... wanted to spend as much time with you as I possibly could. I still do."

"I'll do whatever I can to live the future I want with you."

George closes his eyes, Dream's words yanking at his heartstrings until it feels like they could snap. His head is a maelstrom of Dream's doting words and his very own vitriol, clashing, struggling like the air in his lungs. It hurts. Everything does. From his raging head to his swollen toes, his body fights a battle that neither side can win.

In the end, everything dies with him.

He opens his eyes. "Dream... I'm getting worse. Am I right? Tell me."

Dream closes his. Though his head hangs low, he nods.

George draws in a pathetic breath. "George, please," Dream pleads before George can get a word out.

"Don't... don't go. Please. I-I won't heal you. Just... stay with me. Please."

But George is already taking steps backwards. "George..." The dejection in Dream's eyes and the desperation in his voice makes George want to stop, but he knows he has to go.

The longer he stays, the more tempting it will be to live.

And the more tempting it will be for Dream to help him accomplish that.

George wants no part of it now.

"Just... go home, Dream," George says. "Go home, and go to sleep. I know you're tired. It's tiring, watching me die. I get it."

Dream winces, his face caving further in. "I'm not... I'm not mad at you, Dream," George adds just loud enough to hear.

Because truly, he isn't.

And he doesn't want to leave Dream thinking that he is.

But he needs to go, tuck himself under the covers and let time run its course. He needs to live out the rest of his life, however long it may be, without the magic, without the extra help, because that's how it's supposed to be.

He was never supposed to meet Dream. Dream was never supposed to heal him. He was supposed to continue on with his life of dying. He was supposed to breathe until his shitty lungs decided it was time to go. And breathing was never supposed to be easy.

His life was not supposed to unfold like this.

His life, or any life, is no fairy tale.

So he figures, he should close the book for good.

❀ 

On the way back to his dorm, George dumps Karl's potion onto the ground and watches a trail of flowers sprout and die in the glimmering liquid's wake.

He licks the rim, savoring the last drop of it before he tosses the bottle in a nearby trash can, disposing of the last shred of fairy magic in his life.

❀ 

It's nearly dark by the time George makes it back, the periwinkle clouds now an ominous gray against the blanket of inky blue. Sapnap's little desk lamp is on but there is no Sapnap to be seen.

"What would you do if you had an episode and nobody was here to help you? What if you can't catch your breath and you die because I'm gone?"

George has enough energy in him to climb into bed with a single gulp of water sloshing around in his stomach, smiling to himself, thinking that if that does happen... then he dies.

Nothing else to it.

❀ 

George wakes up to the heavy dorm door closing. Through the sleepy bleariness, he sees the red numbers on his digital clock reading 9:56. He can't help but wonder if Dream is asleep now.

"Oh. Hey, George," Sapnap says as if he hadn't been expecting George to be there.

"Hey." George clears his throat, managing to sit up, feeling every muscle in his body fighting with his bones. His eyes feel swollen from the tears.

Sapnap looks at him with worried eyes. "You don't look so hot."

"I am terminally ill," George says. The words slip out so easily. "But... yeah. Dream and I got into an argument."

"Oh... shit." Sapnap sits down on his bed, glancing off to the side before his eyes finally make the roundabout back to George. "If you wanna talk about it, I'm all ears."

George coughs. "You can probably guess what it was about."

Sapnap looks away again, biting his lip, and nods.

George sighs, the air scraping his throat. It's practically being forced out of him whenever he talks.

"It's all I've ever known, Sapnap," George rasps, clearing his throat again. "This illness... it's all I am.

It's all I will be until the day I die."

Sapnap lets out a deep breath. "George, you're not even going to believe me when I tell you that it's not."

And unfortunately, Sapnap is right.

Because this disease is all George's ever known. It's all he is. His lungs are spreading their damage to the rest of his body, resulting in a barely-functioning boy who can't even eat or sleep or walk without obstruction. 

His body is all tank oxygen and pain. One look at him from the outside, that god forsaken tube up his nose and the chubby fingertips and pallid skin and bones, and anyone with eyes could see that he is ill. It's the first thing people see—not the sun, not someone who finds meaning in everything, not some walking miracle. He is none of those things, and he can't believe he let Dream make him believe even a fraction of it.

"I can't make you see that," Sapnap goes on. "Nobody can make you see that but yourself. But it's as you said, you think this illness is all there is to you. I can tell you right now, it's not."

'You realize there's a whole human being surrounding those lungs, right?' "You deserve to see yourself in the same light everyone else does, George. If there's one thing I want for you before you die, that would be it."

Sapnap sighs and stands up. "I'm gonna shower. Don't die on me."

George has it in him to laugh, and Sapnap does too. It might be the first time Sapnap has joked about his impending death despite him saying he couldn't.

So George slinks back under the covers and wills himself to breathe for now. It's the least he can do for the only other person at this university who's been there for him through it all.

❀ 

"I'm sorry for... y'know, being an asshole," Sapnap says, climbing under his own covers.

George has his back turned, his eyes closed but ears open. He isn't sure if Sapnap thinks he's asleep or not.

"We just... we want to see you live, George. You've done nothing but good for us, and we want all the good for you. It's frustrating, seeing you act like your illness is all that encompasses you. But... under the surface, behind your cannula and shitty lungs, you have an entire personality. There's your illness, and then there's you. And it's you that we want to see live, no matter what." He sighs. George opens his mouth, but closes it just as quickly, should more senseless, infuriating words escape him.

"You're a trooper, fighting for this long," Sapnap says with a sniffle. "You are stronger than you will ever know."

George hears the shuffling of fabric as Sapnap sinks deeper under the covers, and then there's a little click as he switches off the light.

The breaths that George is trying to take in are feeble and just barely make it through him. But his heart is still beating, and he's still here, still fighting, still alive.

I'm sorry, George wants to say. But right now doesn't feel quite right.

He closes his eyes again, sleep washing over him for the Nth time, a blend of voices that all belong to him saying I'm sorry pulling him under more than any anesthesia ever could.

❀ 

8: He thinks everything is pointless because he's going to die in the end.

But don't all humans die in the end? Is everything pointless to them?

We aren't helping him because we pity him or because we feel guilty that he's dying and we aren't.

We're helping him because we want to, because we want to keep the sunshine in our lives for as long as we can.

It's what we do with our time alive that defines who we are. Not the amount of time we have left, or our ailments, or our faults and flaws.

And I want him to see everything that he is, not just his illness, before he goes.

❀ 

George doesn't know how long he stays in bed for, sipping water and nibbling away at food Sapnap steals for him from the dining hall. At most, he can get maybe three bites down before he hands the plate back and Sapnap finishes whatever he doesn't eat.

"George... I really think you should see somebody." Sapnap says one evening. "You haven't left your bed in almost two days. Can you at least... shower or something?"

The question makes George's heart sink.

"Can you get up?" Sapnap asks.

George clears his throat, swallowing as he uses whatever energy he has to sit up and swing his legs over his bed. Sapnap is standing watch, right by George's side in case something happens.

"Do you need my help?"

Normally, George would give him a defiant no. But his limbs feel weak; his toes are tingling and everything feels numb and he can feel it already—if he stands up on his own, he will fall.

He holds out his arm. Sapnap readily takes it.

Gathering George's toiletries in his shower caddy with one hand, he holds George steady with the other and tugs gently, ushering George to follow. The tank trails behind them slowly as George inches his way across the room, hobbling like he's just aged a century. God knows he feels like he has.

"Are you okay?" Sapnap asks.

"Yeah," George answers. He isn't, not really, but at least he can walk with a little help. He should be fine in the shower.

Sapnap guides him to the biggest stall, helping him out of his clothes. He waits outside, handing George whatever he needs when he needs it.

Standing under the steady stream of warm water is a lot more fulfilling than George thought. But then again, his body felt like it couldn't move for a day and a half.

He coughs weakly as he turns the faucet off, and Sapnap hands him his towel. With a cleaner mouth and body, George feels the slightest bit refreshed, but his body still feels like a stick wobbling in heavy winds.

One wrong move and he could fall over and his lungs could collapse.

He walks a bit faster on the way back, but as soon as he sits back down on the bed, another cough wracks him, stronger this time. It punches its way out of him, knocking him square in his chest, his heart thudding in his ears.

And several more follow.

"George..." He can just barely hear George over the roaring waters in his ears.

Through the coughs, George manages to raise his arm in the direction of the nightstand, pointing his finger at the box of tissues sitting behind the alarm clock.

He can feel it rising.

Sapnap shoves a few into his hand and watches, watches as George squeezes the rest of the coughs out his body and spits into the tissues.

"Fuck," George wheezes, glancing down at the disgusting translucent fluid staining the once perfect white tissue. "That rarely happens."

"It's... not supposed to happen, right?" Sapnap questions, terrified.

"It's happened before." George's voice is barely there. "Rare, but it happens."

"George—" "It's fine." George angrily crumples the wad of tissues into a ball and tosses it in the direction of the garbage can, just missing by a narrow margin. "I'm going back to sleep."

"George, seriously, I really think you should go—" 

"I'm fine, Sapnap." The word 'fine' gets stuck, and it breaks when it manages to get out.

Sapnap lets out a defeated sigh, clicking his tongue. "You know... I haven't gone to class."

"What?"

"I didn't go to class yesterday, or today. And I won't go tomorrow."

George stares up at him incredulously. "Why?"

"Because!" Sapnap gestures at him. "Look at you, George! You can barely move, and you just coughed up some pretty nasty sputum, which sure as hell isn't normal! I'm not going to class until you get the help you need!"

"You're..." An idiot?

George's eyes screw shut at the sour memory bubbling up in his brain.

And then, more coughs bubbling up inside his chest.

His fingers scramble for purchase on something, settling for the edge of the bed, squeezing until his knuckles go white.

"Fucking shit," he hears Sapnap mutter, and there's the sound of tissues being pulled from the box.

George crosses his arms over his stomach as more and more coughs pummel his insides, leaving him seeing multicolored dots beneath his tightly-shut eyelids. He can't breathe, he can't breathe, there's no oxygen getting into his lungs, it's all being forced out of him, he can't breathe— His ears ring with the world's worst song. White noise, filling his space. He feels something being pressed against his lips, his mouth filling with moisture as he spits up whatever is being ejected from his lungs.

Large hands circle his back, rubbing it, coaxing the coughs out of him.

Through tear-filled eyes, he blinks, absorbing the world as it comes back to him.

He glances down at the tissue.

"Holy fuck," Sapnap mumbles. "George, this isn't funny anymore."

There, in the center of the tissue, is a spatter of sputum tinted pink with red specks.

"That's it, I'm calling emergency services," Sapnap grumbles, grabbing and shoving more clean tissues into George's hands before standing up abruptly and snatching his phone from his bed.

George can only watch the fuzzy word bend and swirl, a few key words breaking past the warbling barrier.

"Yes... roommate with IPF... he just coughed up blood... hey! Hey, George!"

George blinks, eyelids fluttering as Sapnap's voice drowns in the rippling pool of his senses. He's weak, so weak, his vision splotched with red just like the tissues... "George, hey, stay with me, George! Don't you fall asleep on me!"

Fall asleep... is this how Dream felt?

George swallows, or tries to, a tattered breath wiggling its way into his throat before inevitably getting caught in the scars of his lungs.

And it doesn't come out.

"George! Come on, George! Stay with me!"

George tries, he really does. The voice calling out to him, he tries to latch onto it, tries to hold onto the last bit of the world he can. He feels something slip over his face, waves of the ocean crashing into him.

"Hold on, George. Please. You have to hold on."

George's eyes close, his world engulfed in black and red as he wraps his fingers around the last piece of the corporeal world he can touch before he feels himself drifting out of it.

Whatever he's touching, it feels warm, like the sun.

❀ 

"What are some things that can kill us, Quackity?"

"Why on earth would you want to know that?"

"Just in case. I need to know what to stay away from."

"Oh, Dream. Like I said, fairies aren't invincible. Weapons can kill us. Violence. War. Things of the like. But... a lot of the things that can kill us, we can't see. And it's hard to stay away from things that we can't see. So be cautious, Dream. Your life is a treasure."


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George is one who believes in second chances; it's just that he's too far gone to get his. His lungs are practically turning to stone, and without an oxygen tank and a tube in his nose, he may as well be dead on the floor.
> 
> One fateful night, he meets Dream, a mysterious boy with a strange affinity for nature, whose world is a little more than supernatural. It's magical.
> 
> (This is a story with VERY long chapters, filled with angst, sadness, and things related to that. tread carefully, but enjoy!!)

"Karl, when will I be as powerful as you and Quackity?"

"Oh, Dream, don't sneak up on me like that! Why do you ask such a thing?"

"Because you and Quackity are the most powerful fairies on the planet!"

"Ha! Dream, you certainly have a grand imagination. You know that there are fairies out there that are a thousand years old?"

"What? Fairies really live that long?"

"They can. Fairies don't get ill like humans do, and our healing capabilities exceed any human's. As long as we stay out of trouble, we could live an endless life. Imagine the powers you'd have, Dream!"

❀

Somewhere in the folds of his dreams, George swears he can hear Dream's voice.

Dream is screaming at the top of his lungs, sobbing. It's undeniably Dream's, but George has never heard him quite like this before. Every moment with Dream has been calm, like the water at the oasis, like Wilbur's soothing tone, like Karl's potion making its way through George's body.

But this voice George hears, it's nails raking across a blackboard, tires screeching, glass shattering, all in one heart-wrenching scream of his name.

George opens his mouth to respond, but all that comes out is a waterfall of blood that stains his dreams red.

The screams ripple outward. It's not just Dream now; it's a distorted cacophony of voices that George can't distinguish, and Dream's is just one of the many. He can't hear Dream anymore.

He squeezes his eyes shut and throws his hands over his ears, but when a dream is all that exists, physical obstructions such as his hands won't work. The screams are around him and in him. They're everywhere.

"George, can you hear me? I need you to open your eyes."

But he can't, because if he opens his eyes then everything will fall apart.

"It's safe, George. Please open your eyes."

Who's speaking?

"George."

So familiar.

As if a gear has turned, as if the world within his dream has shifted, the screams drown into a garbled chorus that tapers off into the sound of running water.

"George."

Who are you? George finally opens his eyes. His dreams are painted blue.

"You remember me, right? I know we have only seen each other a few times."

George blinks as the stranger's form undulates through the watery vision of his dream.

How are you here?

He sees the stranger shrug. "Am I here? Only you can answer that question, George. I'm no dream-walker, that's for sure."

Then who are you? Why are you here?

The stranger chuckles. It feels like there's water flooding George's eardrums, like he's submersed in an ocean that he can breathe in.

"Like I said, only you can answer that question. Am I here? Or am I not here?"

Where am I? Am I dead?

"I don't think so, no. If you were, you wouldn't be seeing me right now. Tell me, George, what do you remember?"

I was dying... wasn't I? There was blood... and then the world went dark.

"Mm. Not so dark now, though, hm?"

George shakes his head in what feels like slow motion.

But I was ready to die.

The stranger sighs. "You have always been ready to die, George. But... were you truly? I need you to think back, George. There is somebody waiting for you out there. He needs you to wake up. You cannot die. Not yet."

He... needs me to wake up?

"You need to remember him. Remember him. Wake up."

I can't... I can't seem to remember.

"Look around you, George. What do you see? Where are you right now?"

George rotates his head in all directions, but all he sees is blue. His limbs are spread out, floating in what feels like zero-gravity, waves encasing him, caressing his skin...

Water?

"You have not drowned yet, George. You need to wake up. Open your eyes."

George blinks. His eyes are open, yet the stranger insists he must open them.

"Remember him."

Who am I supposed to remember?

"You have to wake up. Think of all those golden moments. Try to remember."

Golden moments... something about the words makes the waves in George's vision churn harder.

Golden. Moments.

George closes his eyes once more, his dreams erupting in gold.

❀

"Do you know how many times he has stopped by just to tell me how much he absolutely adores you? He sees you as if you created everything he loves. Like you 'hung the moon,' as he likes to put it. When he speaks of you, the trees dance. The water moves with his words. When he sleeps on my grounds, I am most certain he dreams of you. I can see it whenever his eyes move. He envisions a world where everything he does is with you. Make his dreams come true, George. You are the only one who can."

❀

Like a flower unfurling for the first time, George's dreams split into sections of white. One by one, the pieces fall back into place and the curtains placed over his eyes unveil the world once again.

He remembers there was white. Then red. Then black.

George wakes up cold with stones in his chest. His eyes fight the intrusion, fluttering as the world filters back into them. The real world, shrouded in all sorts of shades of white. There are gray specks in the white above him, and off to the side, he can hear the muffled sound of his heart beating through mechanical beeps.

He breathes in. And then out. Something hisses as the air leaves him.

"George? George! Oh my god, Georgie!"

George blinks, his ears desperately trying to absorb the warped voice. It sounds familiar, but George isn't too sure. It's only when the frantic face of his mother slides into his vision that he begins to even remotely recognize the voice.

Where am I?

"He's awake! Oh, god, he's awake!" Who is she shouting to?

More importantly, he's awake?

It becomes clearer as his father joins his mother in the continuously parting clouds of his vision. It takes several more blinks and attempted finger wiggles for George to finally realize what's happening and where he is.

It's as if he's sixteen again. The darkest time that George can recall, when his oxygen levels were just too erratic to send him home. He'd stayed within the confines of bleak hospital walls for an entire year, his condition too unstable, his fate teetering on the seesaw of life and death. Somehow, miraculously, after months of rigorous treatment and monitoring, he was finally able to go home with a more intensive treatment regimen that he ultimately failed to maintain.

Which brings him to now.

The last time he coughed up blood hadn't been so bad. From an irritated throat, perhaps. His test results were fine. He was out within a matter of two weeks.

But this? Lying here, under the scrutinizing, endless white of an unfamiliar hospital, George feels like he will be here for much longer this time. His body feels like it's buried beneath layers and layers of snow, chilled to the bone, barely alive.

He's trapped in two prisons—the hospital, and himself.

The hissing is coming from his supplemental oxygen setup. Of course it is. Then there's the mechanically produced heartbeat, which sounds normal, even though George is no doctor. His mouth and nose are being held captive by an ongoing stream of oxygen, constricting the front of his face more than the cannula.

He can breathe. For now, at least.

"Can you talk, sweetheart?" his mother asks, eyes shining with tears.

George blinks and tries to, but no words come out. Just more hissing.

"Oh, god. Okay. It's okay, love. You're awake and alive. That's what matters." Her eyes dart over George's body as if she's searching for something. Some semblance of life, perhaps. Besides the fact that he's breathing and his heart is beating, there isn't much to him that's alive. He certainly doesn't feel that way. "I'm glad Sapnap got you help in time. He didn't want to leave the hospital at first, but we insisted. I'll let him know you're awake."

Right. Sapnap. His roommate, the overseer of George's misfortunes, was the one who called an ambulance for him.

How awful it must have been to see such a gruesome sight.

"What would you do if you had an episode and nobody was here to help you? What if you can't catch your breath and you die because I'm gone?"

"He's closing his eyes again!" his father shouts.

"It's okay," his mother replies. "He must be exhausted. He'll wake up again, I'm sure of it." Something warm covers his hand. "Come back to us, Georgie. We'll be here."

George nods, or tries to, allowing the darkness to take him over once again.

❀

The one I'm supposed to be remembering, it's not Sapnap, right?

"Ha! Certainly you jest, George. I know not of this Sapnap person you speak of. But that's good—you're starting to remember some things. Now I need you to remember him. He will be waiting for you."

❀

The second time George wakes up is a little easier than the first. He remembers waking up before, seeing his parents' faces hovering over him like the sky.

It's darker than he remembers; maybe they closed the curtains or something. Maybe it's nighttime. How long has he been out for? He glances to both sides, his neck straining to move, to see his father asleep on a plastic chair to his left.

He lets out a deep sigh of relief and listens to it hiss. Something about the sound is soothing. It's a reminder that his breath is still there, he's still alive. Not well, but alive.

But he continues to wonder, is that for the best?

To keep this barely-breathing husk of a person alive? God knows George wouldn't be able to live without this oxygen being fed to him. After all, it's been that way for years. It's just that these oxygen levels have to be pumped to the max now.

He angles his head further, his eyes landing on the intricate setup of wires attached to him. There's the tube that connects to his oxygen mask, an IV, a fingertip pulse monitor, and some miscellaneous ones. He lets out another sigh, a quicker one this time. Surprisingly, it isn't followed by a cough.

The hiss of the machine is enough to stir his father, who slowly opens his eyes and shakes his head, only to spring up from his seat at the sight of his now awakened son. "George! Oh, thank god." He kneels at George's bedside, his head bowed. "Your mother just left to get some food at the cafeteria. I'll let her know you're awake again. Do you... do you think you can try to stay awake?"

George manages a firmer nod this time. Though his body still feels like it's being crushed by a hydraulic press, he knows he needs to stay awake, he needs to fight the looming darkness. If he falls asleep again, who knows if he'll wake up?

His father whips out his phone and shoots a quick text message. Well, as quickly as fifty-something-year-old fingertips can move across a smartphone. "I was so worried when you started falling asleep again. What about now? Can you speak?"

George tries again. "Mm," is what comes out. At least his vocal cords are still intact.

"I'll take it." His father chuckles to himself.

When George's mother returns, she tells him the answer to every question he has bouncing around in his brain, as if she can read his mind.

"You woke up around five hours ago. It's eight PM now. I'd messaged Sapnap letting him know that you woke up, and he came straight away. He also brought your other friend Dream. They're in the waiting room right now."

Dream.

"If you remain stable for a little while they'll transfer you to the respirology unit. But for now, you're in the ICU. Seeing as though you've woken up, however, maybe that transfer can happen sooner than later. How are you feeling? Can you speak yet?"

George smiles under the oxygen mask. "Eh."

His mother's face lights up at the single vowel that comes out of George's mouth. Those sad eyes, now bittersweet. She rests a hand on George's bony shoulder and lets out what sounds like a mix between a laugh and a sob.

"Sapnap and Dream want to see you real badly. I swear, they're ready to sit in the waiting room until tomorrow." She actually laughs this time, and squeezes George's shoulder. "I'm going to let the doctor know that you're awake, okay?" George nods again. "I love you, sweetheart. I'll be back." She leaves a kiss on George's forehead before disappearing into the hall, behind the wired mesh in the window.

His father is still kneeling by the bed, hands clasped together on his forehead, head bowed in what looks like a prayer. George was never one to believe in God, but he endlessly appreciates the thought. There's no higher being that can save him from this, he knows that all too well. So he simply watches, his throbbing head swimming through the information his mother just told him.

Sapnap and Dream are here.

Dream.

His parents finally got to meet Dream, though these certainly aren't the most ideal circumstances. He wishes that they'd gotten to meet Dream on a temperate summer day, where they could sit out on the porch and sip lemonade from glasses halfway filled with ice. Maybe with some little toothpick umbrellas. Dream would tell them about his garden back home but not about who actually owns the garden. He'd tell them about the hikes that he takes George on because George can't find the words to describe them himself. And he'd watch Dream from the side, his animated face, his every laugh, and fall even harder.

Is that what this is? Falling for him?

George sighs again. The hiss sounds pretty pathetic this time.

❀

George is transferred to the respirology unit and rewired to less machines this time. His mask is downgraded to one that is apparently different from the first, though it doesn't look nor feel like it. He's given the option of an IV and painkillers if it becomes too much to bear, but he feels okay. With the help of the oxygen, he can breathe okay.

The room on the respirology unit is a lot more homey, with faded blue walls instead of white, adorned by a fake plant in the corner and two armchairs. It also has a bigger window that overlooks a city, one that George doesn't quite recognize.

Right. This is a different hospital.

Sapnap and Dream take George's parents' place once he's settled in. And the first thing Sapnap says to him is, "Shit, dude, you look like you just crawled out of a sewer."

George narrows his eyes at him. "Thanks." But he knows it's probably true. He laughs.

"But hey, you're alive," Sapnap says, taking a seat on one of the armchairs. "I really thought I was gonna lose you, man. They wouldn't let me in the ambulance with you. Luckily I managed to get a cab to the hospital. I would've run after that damn ambulance if I had to." George laughs again. The machine hisses less this time.

Behind those cherub-like cheeks and jolly smile, however, there is a man who is afraid. His two questions that continue to haunt George's memory could have been answered that day. What if Sapnap hadn't been there? George doesn't want to think about it. Not now, when he's alive, and Dream is right in front of him.

Fuck. Dream.

He hasn't said a word this whole time; he's just been staring, expression devoid of semblance of recognizable emotion. Like he has been drained of the sunshine George has known him for.

I did that to you.

I robbed you of your sunshine.

And yet here he is.

"I, uh... I told Techno about what happened. Felt like he should know too," Sapnap says.

"That's okay." George's voice is raspy, his throat scratchy.

"He said he's been busy with classes and work but he'll try to visit you soon."

George nods. He takes one quick glance over at Dream to see that the fairy's eyes aren't even on him. They're glued to the mess of wires attached to George, his face now overridden with one distinguishable emotion: fear. With wide eyes and an apprehensive lip bite, he stares at the apparatuses keeping George alive.

Sapnap sighs, grabbing George's attention again. "Your parents and the doctors asked me what happened and I told them. I don't really know exactly what they're gonna do with that information, but I think that they're gonna see what may have caused that episode."

George attempts a shrug. "That's fine."

"It's just... fuck, George, I can't help but feel like I didn't do enough. Like, I saw you getting worse. I should've called for help sooner—"

"Stop." The interjection is weak, but seeing Sapnap beat himself up for something he couldn't have prevented in the long run isn't what he needs right now. "It's okay."

Both of them know it's not, but Sapnap smiles anyway. A sorry-looking one, but it's still there. He's trying.

Everyone is.

"I'm just glad you're okay." Sapnap's voice drops to a mere mumble. He pats George's shoulder. "Well, as okay as you can be." Both of them crack a smile.

But Sapnap's smile disappears just as quickly as it surfaced as he looks behind him. "Oh, right, Dream!"

Dream blinks, eyes snapping back up. "Huh?"

"I'm sure you and George want your alone time," Sapnap says. "And I'm starving. Are they keeping you fed here, George-ah?"

George side-glances the sea of wires and tubes and shrugs. Is one of them feeding him nutrients, he wonders. "Well, I'll be in the cafeteria," Sapnap announces, and with that, he takes his leave with a salute and one last forced smile.

Which leaves George with the embodiment of his dreams.

"Dream."

Dream looks at him, and he's reminded of just how much he's missed those eyes. How long has it been? How many days have passed since George last saw this gorgeous creature? How many minutes have gone by since George stormed out of his life, only to have him reappear?

The sun is always going to be there, George thinks. It just has to show itself.

And show itself, it has.

"I'm not going to heal you, before you get mad at me," Dream says. He sounds tired.

"I wasn't going to," George says.

Dream nods slowly, taking a deep breath. "I've never been to a hospital before. The only times I've seen hospitals were on TV. This is... this is terrifying, Georgie," he says, gesturing at the various machines by George's bed.

And oh, how much George has missed Dream calling him that.

His biting words of "You're an idiot, Dream" clack against his skull and make his head hurt even more. He wishes he could take it back, take everything back.

"To think, all of this is keeping you with us." Dream shuts his eyes and swallows. "My exhaustion couldn't even begin to compare." He reopens them. "I'm sorry, George. Truly, I am."

He kneels by George's bed, much like George's father had. He swallows again and sniffles, sliding his hand over George's. "I just... wanted more time for you. That's all."

George nods. He thinks he understands that now.

Those golden moments of his, he can't have them if he doesn't have time.

Dream's bottom lip begins to quiver, tears springing to the surface of his eyes. "I wasn't thinking, Georgie. I just—I could feel you getting worse over time, but I knew that if I told you, you would just end up here and who knows how long you would be stuck in this place? I didn't want that for you. I wanted to keep you with me for as long as I could. If that meant my body gave out, I would've—" A sob interrupts him.

George twists his hand so Dream's falls into it. "I was being selfish. I just wanted you with me. That's all I could think about. That's all..." Dream sobs again, his forehead coming down to rest on their clasped hands.

George tests his strength with a squeeze of his hand. He can barely feel it. His entire body is numb. Whether it be the lingering effects of the painkillers from earlier or the disease eating away at his body, he doesn't know.

"It's okay," George whispers. "It's okay. I understand."

Dream just sobs again, his tears soaking into the sterilized sheets and the rough skin of George's hand.

"I want all the golden moments for you, George." He lifts his head, watery eyes meeting George's. "I know that... in order to have your golden moments, you need time. And I was trying to give you both."

"You did," George says. He feels like he could cry, but perhaps there isn't enough water in his body. All he feels is the scratch of his throat. "You did, Dream."

"I just wish that life wasn't measured in time."

If only, George thinks. If only life could be measured in moments, golden or not. The memories left behind would only take up space, not seconds. Ones he could reminisce about infinitely without having to come down. The smiles and frowns, the laughs and sobs, the mishaps and triumphs—George wishes his life could be measured by those and those only.

Time wouldn't even be a factor. He could live all the moments he wanted.

But that's not life, his or anybody's. And seeing Dream like this, even though his life is immortal, it makes the fairy seem nothing short of human.

"It's like you're already grieving my death," George mumbles. He manages a smile. "I'm still alive, Young-ah."

"Young-ah, huh?" Dream smiles back. "Seems like you've still got sass in you."

"I'm dying, not a completely different person."

Dream full on laughs at that.

As George watches Dream laugh, he wonders why. Why now, of all times, his friends and family seem to be warming up to these jokes, these reminders that he's dying. Or, if they're just smiling and laughing because he's smiling and laughing even though he's lying here, a charging robot connected to a rainbow of wires.

There's nothing funny about dying. George knows that. But there is something wondrous about living despite all of the killing things, and witnessing that miracle happening right before your eyes.

And that warrants the smiles and laughter. George knows that now. He wonders if they know it too.

❀

The doctor at this hospital goes by Dr. Nam. He's considerably younger-looking than Dr. Lee and doesn't look as tired, but that's probably because he hasn't met George before. George swears that he's stripped at least five years off Dr. Lee's life.

This hospital is a half hour away from the university campus and two hours away from home. His parents had to drive two hours because of this. Shit.

George feels like he's in the middle of a police interrogation even though he's not being asked any questions. Sapnap already gave them the rundown of it all, but in summary, George was getting worse, and this little convention is being held to tell George why.

"You were actually out for a little over a week, George," Dr. Nam tells him. "We kept you under so we could perform some tests on you, one of which was a biopsy." George quickly glances at his parents, who continue to watch the doctor intently. "Once you're a little more stable, we'll send you in for some more image scans, but for now, we're waiting on the biopsy results."

"How much longer until we get them?" George's mother asks, her voice so anxious that George can feel it ringing in his bones.

"Could be tomorrow, could be within the next few days." Dr. Nam looks between the three of them, his brows creased, solemn.

"Excuse me," George says. "What was the biopsy for?"

"To see what could have been the cause of your sudden decline."

"But is there something in particular you're looking for?"

George's mother's eyes widen as she turns to her son. "George, what are you implying?"

"It can't just be my IPF anymore," George says calmly. "It's never done this to me. There's something else."

Dr. Nam's face grows even more troubled.

"What's your opinion, Doc?" George asks.

"I truly cannot say anything for sure, and I don't want to raise any alarm." Solid response, George thinks. One more look at his parents, however, and George understands why Dr. Nam is sugarcoating this.

"Dr. Nam, can I talk to you alone?"

George's parents' bewildered eyes fly in his direction. "George—" his mother starts.

"Please," George cuts her off, eyes boring into Dr. Nam's. "I'm an adult now, aren't I? I can talk to the professionals on my own."

His parents share one last harrowed look before conceding, trudging out into the hallway, leaving George with the messenger of his fate. George sighs. "Doctor, the last time I had a biopsy done, it was because they wanted to check for cancer." He can see the way the doctor's eyes widen ever so slightly. "Is that what this biopsy is for? Or, actually, is that what you think it is?"

If Dr. Lee was the one in front of him, he would already know his fate.

Dr. Nam's face deflates as he sighs. "George... I understand you don't want to worry your parents. Is that why you wanted them out of the room?" George nods. "You seem like the kind of person who wants the truth no matter what it may bring."

"Ask literally anybody and they'll tell you." George laughs sardonically.

"Ah, well... it's become quite clear to me. But since you want the truth and my honest opinion, I will tell you that your most recent symptoms align with those of lung cancer."

George is shocked when he doesn't hear the heart monitor stop.

"The biopsy could turn up negative, who knows? But like I said, if you want my honest opinion, I feel as if that is the most probable cause of your condition's decline."

"IPF doesn't cause lung cancer though." George doesn't know why he even says it. He knows this because Dr. Lee told him. It was the first time George was going to have a biopsy performed on him, and Dr. Lee told him this to calm his nerves. It did nothing of the sort.

Besides, even though IPF doesn't cause lung cancer, it's not like it changes much.

"Well, no, it doesn't. But those with IPF are at a higher risk of developing lung cancer. And that's a real double whammy on your lungs, George."

No shit, George thinks.

"Those are just my opinions, however. For all we know, it could just be a severe flare-up, or something different entirely." Dr. Nam sighs again, as if laying down the entire truth on George has lifted a monumental weight off his shoulders. George wonders how often he gets to do that.

"If it's lung cancer," George says meekly, fearing that his voice might break, "then... there's nothing that can be done. Right?"

This is the part where Dr. Nam falls silent. And it's because both of them know the answer; it's just that neither of them want to say it.

There's already nothing that can be done to cure George's lungs of his scars, but there's even more nothing that can be done if there are more malicious things growing inside him.

"You know yourself best, George," is what Dr. Nam says. "We have to wait for the biopsy results to know for sure. But in the meantime, listen to your body. Don't ignore what needs to be done to keep you alive." His eyes travel to the barely-cracked open door, where his parents are waiting outside in the hall, blissfully unaware of the conversation. "Is there anything else you need from me?"

George shakes his head, feeling exhaustion creeping back up on him. He wants to go back to sleep.

"If there's anything you need, just press the call button."

George nods and closes his eyes and doesn't even watch Dr. Nam exit the room. He's tired, so tired, as if the mass of the news has finally begun to sink into him, the black hole that sucks every ounce of happiness out of everything and everyone.

Would they be better off without him? George likes to imagine that they would be. Maybe the world would shine brighter if he wasn't in it. All he does is breathe air that barely makes it through. He's living in a world that's not meant for him. And he's not meant for it either.

Perhaps his parents come rushing back in. Perhaps his mother asks him what happened or tries to shake him awake, but he's already succumbed to the dark, where he doesn't have to think, doesn't have to feel, and can live in moments.

The difference is that these moments are dark, and always will be.

❀

George has always built his reputation on his whole cynical "I'm dying" spiel, throwing those words out like they're promotional flyers fluttering in the wind. They slip out of his mouth so easily because yes, he is living with a chronic/terminal lung disease and he will die young because of it.

However, the real substance of those words never truly hit George hard because he's lived a relatively long time with it. In a way, maybe he felt invincible. Like death was imminent and inevitable, but still a few miles down the road and he's traveling at the speed of a hundred-year-old tortoise.

But now, in front of Dr. Nam and his parents, invincible is the last word George would use to describe himself.

He's managed to start eating in morsels again. He's been drinking water. He was stable enough to get his image scans done. But all of that implodes as Dr. Nam drops the bomb that George already held in the palm of his hand.

Dream knew that George was getting worse. How worse George was getting, neither of them knew. And as much as George had a feeling, as much as he felt ready to hear what needed to be heard, he still couldn't even begin to prepare himself for the truth.

The truth being that he really is dying. Dying.

His mother buries her face in her hands. The sobs are almost instantaneous. His father rubs his hand over his face, eyes squeezed painfully shut.

The truth hits him in the chest harder than his disease, now diseases, ever could.

"There's nothing that can be done?" his mother practically whispers, her voice breaking.

"If you want to be technical, there is, but... the prognosis is extremely poor either way. His IPF impedes every viable treatment option for it. Increased complications during and after surgery, adverse reactions to medications, and his body is nowhere near strong enough to withstand chemotherapy," Dr. Nam explains.

George's mother bawls, her head collapsing into her husband's shoulder. His father's arms come up to shield her. George shuts his eyes, concealing a wince. All the while, Dr. Nam just stands there with just a hint of worry in that creased forehead and tired eyes of his. George wonders how many times he's had to deliver death sentences like these.

He glances out the window and wonders what other patients have been to this room. If unsuspecting victims of tragic fate passed away in the very same bed he now rests upon. If there's another person on this unit with the same prognosis as him—being that he won't last the next few months.

Scars aren't the only things attacking his lungs now.

The spider inside him has little malignant friends, and they're multiplying at a rate that George's already frail body can't keep up with. Those insidious things in his lungs will continue to eat away at him from the inside out, and every possible medical treatment would probably end up killing him either way.

He almost can't believe that Dream's power was strong enough to keep those tiny monstrosities at bay.

How long has it been since this second disease started growing? He swears he was fine back in January. Everything checked out. Sure, there was no biopsy to test him for this, but was his lack of symptoms truly due to Dream's magic lingering in his veins?

Had Dream stopped using his power on him sooner, perhaps this would have been detected earlier. But George closes his eyes, draws in a deep breath, and realizes it wouldn't have mattered. The fibrosis would still blow every cancer treatment out of the water. He would still be a walking death sentence.

That is what Dream meant.

While Dream might not have known it was cancer, he still knew George wouldn't make it.

George presses his lips together and chokes back tears.

His mother continues to sob into her husband's chest, the broken sounds of her everlasting sorrow reverberating in George's chest. The world has grown so dark, George wishes it would just engulf him already. He can't stand this anymore.

"Doctor... what other options are there?" George's father asks.

George glances back over, and Dr. Nam sighs. "This would be George's decision ultimately, but I would truly recommend... palliative care."

Dr. Lee had told George what palliative care was back when he was sixteen. It's not that Dr. Lee thought George wouldn't make it, he just threw it on the table as an option. Even so, it was difficult for sixteen-year-old George to interpret it in any different way, and in a defiant gesture and invisible middle finger to Dr. Lee, George continued his treatment in the hospital until he was stable enough to go home.

But now, George truly sees no other option.

If he's going to die, he'd at least want it to be as painless and comfortable as possible. He's sure those around him would want the same thing.

"What would that entail?" his father asks almost hesitantly.

"We have some options. George could stay here, go to another hospital, or go home. If he were to go home, there'd be a nurse to visit him daily and make sure that he's comfortable, administer whatever medication he might need, keep an eye on his condition. Since you're most familiar with the hospital back in your hometown, it would most likely be someone from there. But in summary, it would just ensure that George is as comfortable as he can be during his final days."

Final days. The words hit George like a freight train.

"Can I... can I talk to my parents about it?" George asks timidly.

"Of course. I'll be back in a little while to discuss the matter further." Dr. Nam regards them with a courteous nod before leaving the room.

George's parents turn to him with the most forlorn eyes he's ever seen. Even when George was sixteen, they still held onto that small sliver of hope that their son would pull through. But now that palliative care is seemingly their only option, now that all cards have been dealt, they know that all hope has been lost as much as they wish it hasn't.

George fights back the majority of his tears, should the crying trigger another round of coughs.

"George... is that what you want?" his mother asks through her neverending waterfall of tears. "We'll want whatever you want, sweetheart. It's your choice."

"I don't think there really is any other choice," George mumbles. "I might as well be home for the rest of my days. I don't want to be stuck here."

A shy smile of relief briefly flashes across his mother's face. She unravels herself from her husband's arms to fall by George's bedside, taking her son's hand in hers. "It would be so amazing to have you home, my love. You have no idea how much we missed you. Although, I definitely wish that these weren't the circumstances."

They crack a laugh at that.

She sighs, her tears coming to a slow. "I just want you to know that... you choosing palliative care isn't you giving up. You're still fighting. And you will continue to fight. Do you understand?" George nods fervently. "You have no idea how immensely proud we are. We love you so much." She presses a hard kiss to his hand, the kind of kiss only a mother could give. "Our beautiful son. We wouldn't trade you for the world."

That's when George lets the waterworks break free, because he's so sick of holding it back. He needs to let it out, needs to cry because this is it, this is his clearest destiny. And how can one sit back and bottle up their emotions until they're lying on their deathbed? George refuses to do that. He's not going to die with a locked chest of emotions that the world never got to see.

So he cries, he cries and cries and cries until the coughs take over and the doctors have to rush in because his heart rate is spiking. But even then, George doesn't regret a single second of it.

He needs to gather as many moments, as heartbreaking as they may be, before he leaves this world forever. As the doctors scramble to control his spasming heart, the tiniest of smiles breaks through the pain.

❀

Only two people are allowed into George's room at a time. Sapnap and Techno visit on a dreary Sunday, when the world doesn't look all that bright, misted over with oncoming rain. His normally pert face droops at the sight of George all hooked up to monitors and painkillers.

"You know," he says, "I remember when I first met you, and you immediately went off about your illness and how it was gonna kill you someday." George scoffs mirthfully at the memory. Techno chuckles, though his heart isn't in it. "I didn't think it would happen so soon. Or, I guess, I didn't think it would happen at all. I don't know, George. I got to know you, and it didn't seem like you were sick at all. You were just... you. I don't know."

Techno rubs his forehead, sighing heavily. "That shit in your lungs, it's like it's not even there. Just you. It's just you." He shakes his head and sniffles.

Sapnap is leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, one corner of his mouth lifted and the other one turned down in what looks like a half-smirk half-frown.

There's a whole human being surrounding those lungs.

There's your illness, and then there's you.

"So... you're dying dying now, huh?" Techno asks cautiously.

"Pretty much," George says with an indifferent shrug.

It's strange, witnessing Techno cry for the first time. George has known Techno to be the only person whose exuberance rivals Sapnap's, sharing all the same traits and boundless amounts of joy. Their chemistry is impeccable. So seeing Techno cry is a lot like seeing Sapnap cry. But seeing both of them cry at the same time feels like a monsoon is sweeping over George's head.

George will go home, he'll die there, and he'll never see Sapnap or Techno again.

This may very well be the last time he sees these two drops of sunshine.

He lets them cry while he suppresses his own tears. He feels like he's exhausted his supply; if he sheds any more the doctors would have to rehydrate him through an IV.

"I'll call you," Techno swears, forcing George's pinky to lock with his. "I'll call you every day until..."

Until you don't pick up anymore.

George nods in silent agreement, forming that invisible pact. He isn't sure what'll happen leading up to his last day on Earth, if he'll even have the energy to pick up the phone on the days leading up to it. But he'll try his best.

Everyone tries hard for the dying.

As George watches the tall, broad frames of his friends disappear back out into the ever-thriving world, wiping away their grief-stricken tears, he thinks to himself, Maybe I should try too. For the living.

❀

George is discharged three weeks after he was first admitted, his beloved portable oxygen resting in his lap as he's wheeled out to his parents' car. He's fine enough to walk but not much else, so he stays watching as his parents pack his things into the trunk when he notices a moving shadow in his peripheral.

Three, actually. And when he looks in their direction, his mouth falls open.

"Thought you could get rid of me that easily?" Dream teases with a fox-like grin plastered on his face.

"W-Dream? What are you..."

Behind him are Karl and Quackity, looking considerably more... human. Karl's hair is jet black instead of platinum white, and their eyes are no longer gemstones.

"I'm going back home with you."

"What?" George exclaims.

His parents slam the trunk door shut. "Oh, Georgie!" his mother calls out while George's father rounds the car to the driver's seat.

"What does he mean he's coming home with us?" George asks immediately, earning a mildly offended look from Dream.

"Ah... you see, he asked," his mother says. "He was very insistent. And very persuasive with his words." She grins over at him, and he returns a cheeky one. "Your friends really care about you, sweetheart. They... they want to be by your side for as long as they can."

George raises an eyebrow in Karl and Quackity's direction. They smile reassuringly.

"You never told us about Karl and Quackity," she goes on.

"Ah, well, we only got acquainted recently," Quackity explains. "But he's become a very important person in our lives."

Seeing his mother's smile grow, he can't bring himself to feel any ounce of anger. He is, however, extremely confused.

He wonders what kind of finagling they had to do to make this happen. Was persuasive fairy magic involved? Some brainwashing? How was Dream able to pull this off?

"I'll leave you two alone to talk for a bit, and then we can head home, okay?" With one last smile, she pats George on the shoulder and slides into the passenger's seat, closing the door behind her.

George turns his attention back to the three fairies with another raised eyebrow. "So... what's going on?"

"We're going home with you. Well, we're staying at a nearby hotel. I'm going to visit you every day, and I'm swearing that on Karl's grave." Karl chuckles at that, landing a light slap on Dream's shoulder.

"We're here for support, to say the least," Quackity says. "We didn't just want to send Dream off to an unfamiliar place on his own. We are practically his parents, after all."

Dream rolls his eyes playfully, shooting another sun-filled smile at George.

"I can't believe you." George shakes his head incredulously, though he can't stop the chuckle that slips out. "How did you manage to convince my parents?"

"Let's just say your parents are very loving, accepting people," Dream says.

George glances down to find Dream's fingers wrapped around his wrist, still home to the hospital bracelet that hosts his name and date of birth.

"I'm not going to heal you, if that's what you're worried about," Dream whispers, sighing. "But I'm not letting you go again, George."

George looks back up to see that Dream's smile has completely vanished, his golden brown eyes staring deep into George's. "I told you, I will grow old with you. This isn't going to stop me."

Dream releases his wrist, never once breaking away from George's gaze. It's as if all the anger evaporates in that moment; all the vicious words that George spat, all the indignation, everything that happened that painful evening disintegrates above their heads.

George nods wordlessly, feeling all the previous days' worth of springtime flowers blooming in his chest.

I will grow old with you, Dream.

❀

9: This is less of a thing I hate about him, and more of a thing I hate because of him.

Today I found out that he is truly, truly terminal. Stage three lung cancer combined with idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis is going to take him from this Earth. He has whatever time he has left, and that's it.

How many golden moments can one squeeze into a day? A half hour? One minute? Thirty years? I know that George won't get even close to the last one. For all I know, he could die tomorrow.

Time is the truest tragedy of life, yet everything that happens in life is measured in it. How long is that infinite moment going to last? How many days does everyone have left? What's going to happen in the next few minutes?

I hate it. I hate that everything has to be measured in time. I wish life were measured in moments instead. I wish that the two could be separate entities, that they can exist without coexisting. That moments could happen and last however long. That we could be stuck in some permanent golden moment where we can live and do things as if time won't tear us apart.

I want to live as many golden moments with him as I can.

And, get this: I think I might be in love with him.

❀

"Dream... I hope you realize that this isn't your fault."

"You understand though, right? Look at you and Karl. You two get to live as long as you want. He doesn't. He's dying, Quackity. I didn't want him to waste what could be golden moments because he's stuck in a hospital."

"I understand, Dream. And I'm not here to tell you that you made the wrong choice. It's your power, after all. You use it however you want. We just warn you about it because we love you. Your life means the world to us."

"He means the world to me, Quackity. You know what that feels like."

"Yes, Dream... yes. I do."


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George is one who believes in second chances; it's just that he's too far gone to get his. His lungs are practically turning to stone, and without an oxygen tank and a tube in his nose, he may as well be dead on the floor.
> 
> One fateful night, he meets Dream, a mysterious boy with a strange affinity for nature, whose world is a little more than supernatural. It's magical.
> 
> (This is a story with VERY long chapters, filled with angst, sadness, and things related to that. tread carefully, but enjoy!!)

George's home is a modest two floors with semi-polished wooden floors that give the place a country-like feel that truthfully suits the location in which it's located. They navigate through miles and miles of sky and trees before they pull into the gravelly driveway. It's only been a few months since George has been home, but the house looks almost unfamiliar. Almost cabin-like, and he swears it never used to look that way to him.

The whole time, Quackity follows them with Karl and Dream, and George can't help but question where the hell they got that SUV because he swears their driveway was car-less and more like a little dirt path than an actual driveway.

George scowls once he sees his father heading for the foldable wheelchair in the seat next to him, unlocking the door and stepping onto the grass with his own two feet. Seeing this, his mother steps out and reaches her arms out as if he'd fall over.

"I'm fine," he assures, throwing one of the straps to his portable oxygen over his shoulder.

Dream is staring up at the house with curious eyes, brows slightly scrunched as if he's trying to observe everything he's seeing. George walks over to him, trying to see whatever he's seeing.

"Your house is big."

"Compared to yours, a little bit," George jokes.

One would think that after living more than half their life in the same house, they'd know every little thing placed or misplaced in the house, every nook and cranny, how many steps to take and where to take them. It was that way for George once, since his illness left him confined within the same walls for years. But even though George had been at university for only less than a year, it's as if the house has shifted into a dream world, one that is new and unfamiliar and terrifying.

This house doesn't feel like his home anymore. He spent his entire childhood and adolescence living in this house, and now, he will spend his final days in it too. But he supposes it's better than rotting away in a room where one could easily replace his spot and die too.

George knows that nothing about the house has changed; the living room walls are still painted heavy cream and the wood floors are still a perfect shade of caramel. The carpet under the living room coffee table is still a deep red velvet and still has an even deeper stain of red from when his mother accidentally spilled sweet red wine onto it. His room is on the ground floor, even though it used to be his parents' room. They swapped after George was diagnosed so he wouldn't have to climb stairs. He did it anyway.

There's a droopy sunflower in a lanky vace atop the faux fireplace in the living room and George thinks it's an awful place to put a flower. An arrangement of fake flowers rests on a handmade placemat in the center of the dining table. Their kitchen is a stark contrast to the rest of their house, a sleek modern mess of shiny wooden cabinets but granite countertops. George hates looking at it and feels bad for whatever poor soul buys the house after this.

The rest of it though, it's cozy. It's no Quackity and Karl fairycore cottage, but it's home nonetheless.

His room feels emptier. Then again, he never really bothered with decoration; he never worshipped something so much that he felt the need to hang posters of it. It's his bed and dresser, a closet with a mirror, and a big double-paned window that overlooks the backyard. When George thinks about it, perhaps he was the most boring teenager known to the country.

"Sorry my room isn't exactly exciting," George mumbles, adding a halfhearted chuckle.

"You're in it," Dream says with a shrug. "That's pretty exciting."

George scoffs but smiles. The door is barely cracked open behind them, and he can hear his parents and Quackity and Karl conversing somewhere else in the house.

So he takes the godsent opportunity to close his weary eyes and lean in, feeling his feeble body practically collapsing into Dream's embrace.

"I've got you," Dream whispers into his hair, lips right beside his ear. "I've got you, baby."

Under any other circumstances, George would probably question Dream's word choice right there. But he's so tired, so, so tired, and he feels like he could already fall asleep even though the sun isn't even close to setting.

Dream helps George into bed. The comforter is thicker than he remembers, and it smells like that artificial floral scent. Having become more familiar with the actual scent of flowers, George almost laughs to himself, finding the manufactured aroma of those colorful drops of sky and sun to be too sickeningly sweet.

It helps lull him to sleep anyway.

❀

George wakes up to a familiar scent, but it's not one he's used to smelling in his house.

Dream is still there, spinning around in his desk chair, the setting sun's rays beaming off of his skin. "Oh, you're awake," he says, and immediately stands up. "Quackity and Karl are helping your parents make dinner."

"I'm not really hungry," George mumbles.

"But they're making your favorite vegetables! You know, your parents were impressed to hear that Quackity's vegetables made you like vegetables again."

"I don't like vegetables because of Quackity's vegetables. I like his vegetables only."

Dream laughs like a tittering bird.

"Whatever, Georgie. Let's go eat."

❀

"I can't drink this, Dream."

"Don't worry, Georgie. It's just sparkling grape juice."

George snorts, watching as Dream pops open the cork and pours them two red plastic cups of the liquid stars.

They click their cups together.

"Here's to the rest of our lives, George."

❀

Quackity and Karl leave once the sun is down, but Dream stays.

"Are you... staying over?" George asks hesitantly after he spits the rest of his toothpaste.

"Your parents are okay with it. Are you?"

It's kind of too late. Dream is spitting his own toothpaste into his sink too. And he has just a t-shirt and plaid pajama pants on. How George didn't pick up on that earlier, he doesn't know.

There's this poor carcass of an air mattress next to George's bed and George laughs at it. "When did that get there?"

"When you were half asleep. Literally before you got up to brush your teeth."

George feels like he would laugh, but then he remembers that he was asleep for the entire afternoon and he was apparently half asleep after dinner and who knows how long he'll actually sleep for tonight.

It's only ten when the two of them slip under the covers. The curtains are drawn, allowing the glorious moonbeams into George's room, shimmering off of Dream's natural luminescence.

George doesn't want to sleep.

"Tell me a story," Dream says.

"Shouldn't I be asking you to tell me a story?"

"We're in your house, Georgie. You lived your entire life here before I met you. I want to know the things you've done and seen. It doesn't have to be this big world-changing event. It could be as simple as, 'I had pizza on this day and it was fucking delicious.'"

George chuckles and concedes, his hands mindlessly meandering down under the covers to find Dream's. "Okay... well, I've lived in this house my entire life. Though, when I was taken out of school at thirteen, I literally lived in this house. Didn't really leave."

"You didn't tell me you went to an actual school!"

"Ah, well, it was just primary school. I honestly can't remember much from it. I think being ill tends to take up most of your memories."

Dream makes a face. "Then tell me about a memory from school that you do remember."

George chuckles. "Okay, fine. Let's see... I used to be pretty good at sports. There were no teams but I'd always do well in P.E. I think I was the second fastest runner. And there was one time I beat the actual fastest runner at a race and he cried. Right there in front of the class."

"George! How could you? You should've let him win!" The obvious attempt at sarcasm falls flat when Dream bursts into laughter. "But wow, George. Fastest primary school runner. I'm sure you had a lot of friends."

"No, not really," George says with a shrug. "I mean, I was friendly with a lot of people. But, like, I never felt the need to interact with the kids in my class. They just didn't interest me. I don't know if it was like a bad vibe I got from them, but I just didn't really befriend anybody. When I was pulled from school, it didn't change much."

Dream nods as if he understands, and he probably does. George may not be able to tell who's a good person just by the way the trees rustle, but if there's one thing he and Dream do share, it's the contentment with solitude.

"My life isn't all that interesting, Dream. It never has been."

Dream huffs. "Then make it interesting."

"How? I'm literally dying as we speak."

Completely disregarding the George-esque cynicism, Dream goes on. "You've lived twenty-one years, Georgie. You have more stories than you know. It's the way you tell it. That's how you make your life interesting. So tell me another story."

George sighs, rolling his eyes up to think.

"Fine. Um... well, weather sucks. Literally any weather. If it's too cold, it feels like there are tiny icicles in my lungs. If it's too hot, it feels like I'm breathing out blood. Spring can give me allergies and sneezing makes me feel like I'm about to hack up two lung-sized rocks. Humidity makes it feel like I'm breathing in metal. 

But there was one day in July when I was fifteen where I felt like I could breathe breathe. It was raining that day, too. But it wasn't a humid, sticky rain like most summer rains are. It was nice and cool, and I wasn't sweating in the slightest. I watched the rain from the porch, and there was even some lightning. I hated lightning when I was little, but being cooped up inside meant you had a lot of days of sitting through thunderstorms with nothing to distract you, so I learned to love them.

"It was that day that I thought about the world and how awful it would be if there wasn't any rain. It's weird, Dream. People don't like rain and it's often associated with sadness but if it didn't rain, the world would be a wasteland. And to think, it was a stormy day that made it the easiest to breathe during my entire time locked up at home."

George watches Dream's smile blossom, starting from the center until it unfurls to the corners. It's one of the prettiest smiles George has ever laid eyes upon.

"You know, Quackity and Karl always taught me about Earth's cycles. One of which was the rain cycle. Think about it like this." Dream lift's George's hand from under the blanket, folding and unfolding his fingers until just his index finger is extended. With his hand around George's wrist, he controls George's hand to draw a circle. "The Earth is a circle. It rotates on an axis and revolves around the sun. Circles upon circles."

George watches his (and Dream's) hand trace invisible circles into the air. "A lot of things are like that. Rain is one of the many cycles Earth has. Water evaporates, then condenses, then falls back onto the Earth in the form of precipitation. It rains everywhere, even in places you wouldn't imagine. And it's because of that cycle that Earth and all of its beauty can exist. Every living thing needs water. And every living thing—" Dream turns George's limp wrist until George is pointing at himself. "Every living thing is beautiful."

George stares at the tip of his finger until he feels cross-eyed. Even through his skewed vision, he can see Dream's smile light up again.

"When things die," George says, eyes traveling back under fairy lights, "they become part of the Earth."

Dream nods. "Mhm. That's another cycle. The cycle of life and death. Though nobody really knows what happens when we die, if there's heaven or hell or any sort of afterlife. But our physical bodies become part of the Earth. We never really stop existing. We live, and we die."

"But you—"

"Shh, let's pretend I'm not immortal." Dream snickers, releasing George's hand to reveal his playful grin. "We are born. And we live. And we die. And when we die, our bodies are buried, cremated, left alone, whatever. But whatever happens to them, they don't truly disappear. Like I said, they become part of the Earth. The air, the water, the ground... everything. We are the Earth, Georgie. The Earth needs us, dead or alive. And that is why everybody and everything is important."

Dream's grin softens as he cups George's cheek, his eyes now speckled with blue instead of green in the moonlight's midnight hue. He presses a chaste kiss to the tip of George's nose. "We are always going to be alive," he says. "We will never die, George."

In a moment of weighted silence, George thinks about what he would be.

When his body is six feet under, where will he go? Will he float up to the sky, walk among the heavens with pure white wings and a glowing halo? Will he sink down to the depths, cursed to walk scorching paths of hell? Or will he stay on this Earth as a mere speck, traveling the Earth in an unnamed form, in another cycle, a continuous loop, that keeps this beautiful world turning?

We are always going to be alive. We will never die.

Dream's words ring deep in his dreams, heavy rain pattering onto a glass rooftop.

❀

George's palliative nurse is twenty-six-year-old Philza, burly yet baby-faced, who greets the family (and Dream) with a bright gummy smile and an enthusiastic hello. George wonders how painful it must be to wear a mask like that in front of a dying person's family.

There's paperwork and assessments and all the standard medical formalities that ultimately won't matter, and then George is left alone with Philza in his room.

"So allow me to go over what it is I'll be doing for you and your family. My purpose is to make sure that you are as comfortable as you can be. I'll be here for two hours every day, but I'll be on call if need be. I administer any medications you might need, provide supervision over your breathing exercises, assess your symptoms, and things along those lines. If there's anything you need, please let me know, or your family if I'm not here, okay?"

George nods. Philza gives him a plastic smile, one that somehow reaches his eyes but must hurt to do so.

"For today, I just need to take some blood samples. You okay with needles?

George nods again. They hurt like hell, but what doesn't hurt to a body bag of skin and bones?

George winces as soon as the needle pierces his skin. When there was a needle in him last, at least he had painkillers circulating through him. But now, completely free of anything that could mitigate his pain, he feels the needle and a million more in every one of his pores. "I'm sorry," Philza says.

Once George's blood is packed away in little tubes, he gulps down the orange juice Philza offers him and shoves down the urge to sleep again. It's not even noon and George is ready to return to dreamland.

"You know," Philza says, "I had a chat with your parents. And I think it's wonderful, how supportive they are."

George hums and nods. "How do you feel, George? And not just physically. I'm also here to offer emotional support, though I'm certainly no licensed therapist." Philza adds a halfhearted laugh.

"I don't know," George answers honestly. His shoulders should be sore from shrugging so much recently. He looks away, unable to bear the sympathy brimming from this man's eyes and heart, and he wonders how someone like him could watch people die for a living. "Did the doctors tell you how long I have left?"

Philza shakes his head with a slight pout. "No, and I don't think anybody has that answer, George. And besides, would knowing that really help you in the long run?"

"Or short run," George says, almost on instinct.

And oddly enough, Philza laughs.

"How long have you been a palliative nurse?" George asks.

"Not too long. I only became a nurse last year, and now I'm a palliative one. You're my third patient thus far."

"You've only had three patients?"

"Mm. Well, I have you and one other patient at the moment. The first one, well, she's not with us anymore. But there's you and this sweet little girl I'm looking after too."

Little girl? How cruel must the gods up there be to tease the youth with life, only to rip it from them when it's just begun?

"How do you bear it?" George asks. "You're only twenty-six. That's... only five years older than me."

"Any medical position is difficult, George. You work with the living, and they either make it out alive, or they don't. I want to see people smile for as long as they can despite the things that may ail them. And if I can be someone that makes them smile, or offer any semblance of relief, I think that makes my life worth living. But that's just me." Philza shoots him an even brighter smile.

To see people smile for as long as they can.

It reminds George a lot of Dream.

George finds Dream out in their backyard that afternoon, kneeling at an uneven patch of dirt where there used to be a poor excuse for a garden. It fell into ruin because his mother became focused on caring for her son instead of a bunch of sad-looking seedlings. It is now a square of dark brown in the corner of a vast expanse of green, edged inside by a wooden fence.

"It used to be a garden," George tells him. He would kneel down too if it wouldn't hurt him to do so. Dream looks up at him, blinking. "I don't know what was planted here. They never grew."

Dream nods silently, his eyes slowly traveling back to the patch of dirt. He places his hand above the earthbound clumps, breathing in deeply.

"They're still there," he whispers. "Always will be."

George swears he can see a thin beam of light under Dream's palm before the boy stands up.

"I think your mom should try to grow this garden again," he says. "Maybe plant some vegetables. Fresh is always best. I'm sure Quackity would share his recipe with her."

George scoffs. "I don't know about that. She'd probably need some fairy magic to make anything grow from this sorry excuse for soil."

Dream smiles, glancing back down at the dilapidated ruins.

"I think that can be arranged."

❀

"George..."

"Hm?" George lifts one eye, swollen with sleep and barely-present dreams. It's his mother sitting by his bedside this time. She's shaking his shoulder, just enough to wake him, but not enough to hurt him.

It's almost as if she's afraid her touch will kill him.

"Georgie, look." She points out the window.

Outside, there's Dream, dressed in his loose jeans and purple hoodie and dirt-stained Converse, operating the house's garden hose, sending a stream of glistening water onto the patch of ancient dirt.

As if on cue, he turns around and waves, the sunset bouncing off his candied skin, smile beaming brighter than the sun ever could.

"What on earth is he doing?" his mother asks, her tone filled with amusement.

George lets out a sigh that ends in an incredulous laugh.

"Working his magic."

❀

"How will it end?" George asks as Philza wraps the cuff around his arm. "What will I feel?"

"Do you really want to know that, George?" Philza sounds hesitant as he begins pumping air into the cuff, eyes trained on the indicator. George nods firmly, never more certain. Philza sighs. "Well, you won't really have much energy. Probably lose all your appetite, won't want to talk much apart from maybe a few words here and there. You'll drift in and out of consciousness and won't be able to control it. It'll get harder and harder to breathe. But, somebody will be with you at all times and you'll know it."

"Will I?"

Philza smirks and glances out the window. Dream is watering the plants again, pointing the hose in aimless directions, as if he is the bearer of rain and every ounce of green needs him.

"You've got a good bunch. Someone will always be with you."

❀

About three weeks ago, I was diagnosed with pulmonary fibrosis. The doctors are really confused because I'm only thirteen, so they were arguing about what kind it is. But I don't really think it matters.

I'm not allowed to go to school anymore because it's too dangerous. I think I understand, but it's really boring here at home. It's weird, I always liked staying home from school, but I've been out of school for two weeks and I'm already starting to go insane.

I'm scared. I don't know what the rest of my life is going to look like, or if I'll even have one. I don't want to die. It hurts. It already hurts so much; what if it hurts even more? How would I be able to handle it?

Niki keeps telling me I'm strong and that I'll make it through this. But sometimes I hear her crying when I know I'm not supposed to. I feel bad, knowing how sad this makes her feel. And they must be spending a lot of money. I don't know. It feels like I'm drowning because my lungs are full of gross scars but I'm also drowning in a sea of guilt.

She gave me this journal because she thinks it'll be a good way for me to get my feelings out if it ever becomes too much. I don't know how much I'll use it, but I don't think she's going to read it anyway.

So... that's it, I guess.

❀

Techno calls on a Sunday afternoon, sniffling.

"God, George-ah, I'm so sorry I forgot to call—"

George cuts him off with a laugh. "It's fine, Techno. How are you?"

"I'm okay... classes are still biting me in the ass but at least the year is almost done. What about you? Still hanging in there?"

George glances over at the spirometer on his nightstand. "Yeah."

"Good. You're not allowed to die yet."

George snorts. "So when am I allowed to die?"

"When it's the right time," Techno answers. "But now isn't the right time."

"When's the right time then?"

There's an ominous pause, and George can feel Techno's dread seeping through the phone.

"Never." Techno sniffles again, then hiccups. Then sobs. "You're never allowed to die, George. Not on my watch. You're gonna kick cancer's ass and join our dance team and dance your fucking heart out. Do you understand? You're getting through this. I won't take no for an answer."

George smiles, though his lips tremble as more of Techno's static-riddled sobs fill his ears.

"Okay," he says. "Okay, I will."

Techno laughs, loud and boisterous and loaded with pain.

"Damn straight, George."

George hangs up and draws his knees into his chest. He stares straight ahead until Dream returns from the living room. He'd said he needed to talk to George's parents.

"I told your parents about me," he tells George, entirely straight-faced.

"What?"

Dream shrugs nonchalantly. "They deserve to know. And, well, look."

George turns in the direction of Dream's hand to see the sunlight fluttering in through the cracks in the trees and the tall stalks of flora and beds of leaves growing from the soil. "Plants usually don't grow overnight. They should probably know why their garden is growing back all of a sudden."

"Dream..."

"I told them everything, George. Including the whole healing thing. I don't want you to die with this secret of mine. The people closest to you deserve to know too." Dream stares at him with fiery eyes, determined. "They promised not to say anything. And I believe them."

There isn't much that can be done about it, George figures. "And," Dream adds, "Quackity gave them his recipe. You get to have all the vegetables you want, Georgie."

George laughs, feeling a piece of his trepidation evaporating from his shoulders.

Like water. It will fall again.

❀

"How would you rate your pain on a scale of one to ten?"

George shrugs. The pain doesn't feel like pain anymore; the ache is there but not there, he's in pain but he's not, and he wonders if it's because he's numb or if it's because he's become one with it. As if his body is made up of pain itself, as if he has become a vessel for it. Or if he is pain itself.

"Are you in any pain?" Philza tries.

"I think," George says. "I don't know. Can't feel much of anything, if I'm being honest."

Philza purses his lips. "Tired?" he asks, and George nods.

"Always."

"I encourage you to stay awake for as long as you can, and that's not coming from a medical point of view."

"Isn't that kind of dangerous to say, then? What if I need to sleep?"

"It's coming from a human point of view," Philza elaborates. "I'm sure your family and boyfriend think the same."

"Boyfriend?" George raises an eyebrow.

"Well, yeah, aren't you two together? Sure act like it." Philza chuckles as he packs away his equipment.

"Well... no, we aren't." George frowns, puzzled.

Even if they may seem like it, they aren't. And George wonders what the point would be in dating someone for just another week or so. Or however long he has left.

Dream comes in that night with a bowl of soup made with Quackity's vegetables. George eats a total of three bites.

"Philza said we act like boyfriends," George tells him as he slurps away at the remaining soup.

"Well, do you want to be?"

"Boyfriends? What's the point?"

Dream frowns and sets the bowl down. "So that's a no?"

"No—"

"Then it's a yes?"

George bursts out laughing. "Do you really want to be the boyfriend of a dying man, Dream?"

Dream tilts his head to the side, his face drooping with sarcastic disappointment. "George, do you not remember the time I said I wanted to profess my love for you? You think I'd be opposed to being your boyfriend?"

George closes his weary eyes, head falling onto his drawn-up knees.

"Do I have to remind you of what we did back in my bedroom? If that isn't boyfriend enough—"

"Dream—"

"Remember when I kissed your neck, and you moaned my name—"

"Dream!"

"What?" Dream guffaws, and George looks over to find him doubled over in his swivel chair.

George scowls, though not a single iota of frustration rises within him. He's laughing just as hard on the inside. "Fine, I'll be your boyfriend."

Dream's laughter simmers into the intermittent giggle as he leans down to kiss the tip of George's nose.

"Now that wasn't so hard. But you know what is hard?"

"Dream!"

❀

I'm in the hospital now. I had this really bad coughing episode where I coughed up blood, and it still feels like there's something crushing my lungs. The doctors ran all the tests, and I'm just waiting to hear back.

I think cancer is the thing they're worried about. But I already know that if it really is cancer, there's nothing they can do. I'll just have to wait to die. Dr. Lee told me what palliative care is, and it's tempting, but I'd rather not. Because we don't know if it's cancer and I don't want to jump the gun.

If I survive this, I think I'd consider it a miracle. Or just me being stubborn.

Whatever the case, I'm gonna do my best. I'm doing all the treatments they recommend. I don't know how long I'll be here for, but I'll be here for as long as it takes. Until they tell me I won't live to see the next year, I'm not giving up.

I have too much shit left to do. What I have left to do, I'm not that sure yet. But I'll know when I know.

❀

George stands up to use the bathroom and his pajama pants sink below the protruding lumps of his hip bones. He winces as he pokes them. They're like jagged mountaintops jutting out from his waist.

How does Dream hold him at night?

How can Dream hold a piece of paper in his arms? How can Dream enjoy kissing chapped lips and running his hands along desert-dry skin?

When George can no longer move from his bed and he will be reduced to his body's most automatic processes, how will Dream be able to endure it?

Or will Dream abandon his side for good?

Dream stands outside, watering the garden again. Tomatoes have begun sprouting from the vine. Sunflowers spread out over the fence. Lettuce and squash peep out from the ground. It's a smorgasbord of Dream, his very own living signature, smack dab in the corner of George's backyard.

He turns around and waves like he did before. As if he knows when George is looking for him.

"I will always look for you," George whispers, his fingertips barely brushing the glass that harbors the sun.

He waves back.

❀

"You know how you said that... it's just me? That my illness isn't me?"

"Yeah, of course."

"I think I know what you mean now."

George clears his throat.

His body feels like a rickety fence in the middle of a tornado being knocked against every solid surface every time he lifts an arm.

It's growing unbearable now.

But he's not allowed to die. Not yet.

"Do I have your permission?" he asks meekly. He doesn't even sound the same. Like his voice is foreign, next to him but not in him; his mouth is moving and the sound is coming from somewhere else. He's trying to speak underwater. "Do I have your permission to die?"

There's a pregnant pause.

"What if I say yes, George? Are you going to die tonight?"

George sinks further into his sheets.

"I don't know."

"George... the only permission you need to die is yours."

George supposes that's true. He could rip the cannula out of his nose and die within seconds. He could stop eating and drinking entirely even though his appetite is still there, albeit just enough to keep him going.

"If you feel like you can't go on, then you can't go on. But god, George, I wish... I wish you could. You don't even know."

A hint of a smile grows on his face.

"No, Sapnap. I know now. I know. And trust me... I wish I could too."

Standing on the fraying fringes of a tattered life, George understands now, why the body's natural instinct is to live.

"I miss you," Sapnap whimpers, his voice shattering George's heart. If there were a heartbeat monitor attached to him, it might flatline.

"I miss you too."

"You keep that heart inside you working, okay? For as long as you can. Or, at least until the semester is over."

George laughs. "You better ace your finals, Sapnap."

"You know how many hours studying hours I lost looking after you? Please, George. I'll be fine with just barely passing them. Look, we'll compromise. I pass my finals, but you better be alive by then."

"When will you know?"

"Um... about two weeks."

George sighs and glances down at his chest. That sorry thing is still beating.

"Okay."

"You're a walking miracle, George."

George smiles as he closes his eyes and shuts off his phone.

A walking miracle.

He says it out loud as if saying it would make it true.

George never considered himself to be much of anything. Hearing himself say those words he's heard over the course of the last year makes him feel like he's talking about someone different entirely.

Dream then strolls in eating a cereal bar with one of his monstrous grins. "He always called you that," he tells George. "While we were waiting in the hospital. Called you a miracle over and over again."

He grunts as he plops himself down in George's swivel chair. "You know, you've called me that before too," George informs him.

"Well yeah," Dream says with a shrug. "Because that's what you are."

He waddles, wheeling the chair over to George's bedside with a smile bright enough to rival a million suns.

"You're a walking miracle, George. A little piece of my forever."

❀

George wakes up to what feels like an earthquake when it's just his mother shaking his shoulders.

How weak has his body grown?

How many fragments of this mountain have crumbled into the sea?

"Georgie? Can you speak, sweetheart?"

George's eyes flutter open like wings unfurling. The outline of his mother is there but vague, masked by the dark night and the dim light of his lamp across the room.

"Yeah," he rasps. When he tries to sit up, he discovers his limbs won't listen to his brain. Glued to the mattress, caved in on themselves. He only manages to tilt his head up.

His mother sighs, releasing all of her relief in a single breath. She leans over, placing her hand over George's cheek. "You know we love you, right?"

George tries to nod. He's uncertain if he succeeds, so he answers with a barely audible yes.

Tears already slip out of her eyes. He wonders how long they've been there.

"And we always will," she whispers, words cracking at the seams. Every vowel, every consonant, broken. Her only child, barely clinging on to what life is left of him. Still fighting.

She will always love him.

But where will he go?

Where will he be?

What will he become?

What part of the Earth will his mother love?

"Niki," he says. If he could, he'd reach out, take her hand. Because she needs that right now. She needs it.

With the strength he can muster, he pulls his hand from the depths of his blanket, wincing as he does, and his mother takes it instantly.

"Take care of the garden. Please."

She nods vigorously, every strand of hair bouncing with each bob of her head. So full of life. How tragic, that her offspring doesn't have a fraction of it.

"I will, Georgie. Don't you worry. I'll take such good care of that garden, it'll grow even during the winter." She smiles, the corners of her mouth twitching, struggling.

"It's Dream's gift to you. He... I almost can't believe someone like him exists. That fairies exist." She laughs, a pathetic squeak. "I'm so happy that you two found each other."

George wants to reply, tell her that it was all Dream, Dream found him on that blessed day because the flowers told him to, but can already feel the sleep pulling him in again.

His fingers loosen in his mother's.

"It's okay, my love." His eyes have already closed, but his ears remain open. Holding on.

Holding on to the last of the world.

"If you need to let go, let go."

George wishes he could.

But he can't. Not yet.

A part of him wishes he did in that moment, so he didn't have to hear the gut-churning sob that breaks out of her throat. Something so tortured, so pained. Her most beloved, her most cherished, on the brink of leaving her forever.

He listens to her sob until the sleep finally catches up to him, yanking him back under.

❀

"Look, George," Dream says, placing the laptop onto George's boney knees. "Paris."

"Mm."

"We'll go there someday, I promise."

"Mm."

A feather-light kiss to his forehead. Warm.

Dream sighs. The heat from the laptop sinks beneath the comforter. It feels nice.

"Dream."

"Yeah?"

"When I die, I want flowers." George cranes his neck, wincing slightly at the grinding of his bones. "I want to be beautiful."

"Oh, Georgie." Dream closes the laptop and crawls under the blanket, meeting George at face-level. "You are. You are beautiful."

"Tell me a story."

Dream looks into his eyes as if he's searching for the last string of George to hold on to.

"Tell me a story. We went to Paris. What did we see?"

Dream's lips move like a river. Undulating. Serene.

"The Eiffel Tower at night. And we took pictures because we're rebels like that. And we kissed under a bridge. And had some really good croissants. And maybe, I knelt down onto one knee and pulled a ring from my pocket and asked you to marry me."

George nods. "Maybe."

Dream smiles. "Maybe."

"And we get to live."

He feels Dream nod in his dreams.

"And we get to live."

❀

George wishes he would stop dreaming. Except, his dreams are hardly dreams—just blank screens, giant white squares, as if there's nothing left for his subconscious to conjure up.

But he still hears. He can hear birds. Trees. The occasional whistle of the wind and something knocking against glass. He can smell. Flowers. Savory whiffs of Quackity's legendary vegetables.

And he can feel, soft petal skin gliding against brittle, cracking ice.

He holds on as he falls.

❀

10: There is nothing left for me to hate about him. Because I love him and everything about him.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George is one who believes in second chances; it's just that he's too far gone to get his. His lungs are practically turning to stone, and without an oxygen tank and a tube in his nose, he may as well be dead on the floor.
> 
> One fateful night, he meets Dream, a mysterious boy with a strange affinity for nature, whose world is a little more than supernatural. It's magical.
> 
> (This is a story with VERY long chapters, filled with angst, sadness, and things related to that. tread carefully, but enjoy!!)

TW: Chapters from here on are heavy, tread lightly <3

Space is a turntable and the world is just another record placed atop it, the needle carving in its point, drawing mountains, rivers, oceans, forests. The world is an outline, a song that lasts a lifetime. People are specks, tiny little particles that sit in the grooves. They sing along.

George can hear a song playing. A continuous loop of honeydew-stained piano and lilac-filled strings, blooming. He can hear it, smell it, taste it. It bursts in pinks and purples. Painting the dark sky beneath his eyelids as he sleeps.

These are no longer dreams he experiences. In his frequent bouts of unconsciousness, he is temporarily absorbed into a world where flowers and colors are all that he knows. He has become one with this secondary life, as if it is offering him a mere preamble of what is to come.

The more he visits, the more he finds he doesn't mind it much.

"He's... not dead, right?"

No.

Not quite.

My heart continues to beat but my body cannot move.

"He's just sleeping."

"But what if he doesn't wake up?"

"He'll wake up. He has to wake up."

Maybe.

But what is there to wake up to? The words splatter across the flowery screen. This is what George wakes up to now.

Wake up.

Wake up.

There is a whole other world that isn't ready for your disappearance yet. Don't go.

❀

Dream cradles his chin as he tips the water into his mouth. It glides down his throat a lot easier than the last time somehow. George can barely feel the boy's fingers.

You're touching me as if you'd kill me, you moron.

I know you'd never do that.

You tried to save me after all.

"How do you feel today, Georgie?" he asks.

George swallows the last of his water. Some of it rises to his eyes and sits there in the whites of them, unmoving. Some of it swishes around in his stomach, lonely. Some of it spreads to his lungs, and he wheezes his words.

"I'm okay."

Dream nods but his eyes appear as if they aren't entirely there, hollow shapes for a hollowing person. He's exhausted, but not because he's run his magic dry.

It's tiring, watching me die.

George looks at him like he's the last thing on Earth.

"Okay." Dream nods to himself again, letting out a shaky breath. Trying to convince himself, George thinks. "Okay."

'Maybe okay will be our always.' Bright blue. The color of electricity. A declaration of love. A eulogy to spark endless conversation.

George wants to laugh. So he does.

"Shh, Georgie. It's okay."

He stops laughing.

Who knew?

Who knew that innocuous laughs could start to sound like cosmos-shattering sobs?

George certainly didn't.

Until he discovered he couldn't anymore.

❀❀

Forever. And all of its synonyms, floating on the surface of a glistening pool.

Infinity. The size of a baby grape, one infinity of a whole bunch. There are so many. So many people get their infinities.

Did I get my little infinity with you?

He can't help but feel like this can't be his infinity. The answer might be no.

Little drops of life. They gather. And there are enough to fill entire oceans.

He sobs in his other world and wishes he could live just a little longer, just a little longer, for a taste of that infinity.

❀❀❀

How long does it take to fall in love?

He wants to live a little longer to find out.

❀❀❀❀

Chimes. They're incessant and loud, cutting George's world in half like an orange. There's something pressing up against his ear.

"George? Hey. It's me."

Me?

"I'm sorry."

im sorry i wont make it to the end of the semester

"It's okay, George. It's okay."

Okay. Okay.

okay

it's okay

"I'll miss you, George. I'll miss you so fucking much."

i'll miss you too

Little drops of words into a sea of many, but enough to cause a tidal wave.

❀ ❀ ❀

On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your pain?

Ten. God, ten. If ten thousand were an option, then it would be that. There is so much pain. So much. 

What's happening to me?

Is this it?

Not yet. You can't go yet. There's still so much left to do.

Like what?

"What's happening? He's not dead... right?"

"No. He's just sleeping."

How many more minutes exist in the world? In an Infinity?

Time is a mountain and the tiniest subatomic particle has to conquer it. How much longer? How much longer until it disappears?

❀ ❀ ❀❀ ❀ ❀

When George was ten, he built a sand castle down at the beach and called it the "Sand Castle." He had yet to grow in all his teeth and he could swim five miles for a bucket of cotton candy and a good nap.

Dream was somewhere, separated by sky, his heart pumping magic to his developing body. He grew and thrived without really needing to.

They were north and south poles.

Somehow, they merged, but they are oceans apart.

it's time that separates us

there's an entire sea of time between us and you're on that magnificent ship of yours and i haven't even left the harbor

Talk. You need to talk to him. But oh, how tempting these splotches of colors are. I could live in this world forever.

Wake. Up.

❀❀ ❀❀ ❀

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For staying by his side. I swear, the only time I see you outside of his room is when you're watering the garden."

"There needs to be somebody by his side at all times. I swore I wouldn't let him go again."

"You truly are magical, Dream. George is so lucky to have you."

'Is' will turn into 'was' and George was lucky to have Dream. Yes.

"I love him."

I love him too, ma.

Wake me up so I can tell him.

❀

❀

❀

George's name is spelled out in Hollywood lights. His face is printed on every billboard, cannula-free, smiling, tiny snowballs of teeth.

Everybody is watching, waiting for those lights to go out.

But no. They burn on. People take pictures.

Everlasting memories. He was something to be admired. Something to be loved.

There's your illness, and then there's you.

There are the billboards and the lights and the people who take pictures.

People want to remember you.

No matter how dangerous it may be.

He opens his eyes and Dream is there, and he can register the deepest crevice of a frown before his face bursts into an over-enthusiastic smile.

Breathing feels like shards of glass piercing every cell in his body.

Seeing that smile feels like he's watching the world end. 

Watching those little lightbulbs go out one by one, snuffing out the beauty.

"You're awake..." Dream speaks as if he hasn't in weeks.

How long has it been? A day? A week? A month, a few minutes? How many times can one fall asleep?

drifting

"I love you, Georgie." A kiss to his hand, a signature. A contract. A diamond ring.

i will grow old with you.

where's my letter you darn fool?

where are my violets and blueberry smoothies?

oh god, i cant even say it back

move, you stupid mouth

this cant be it

this is not my infinity

George watches from the other side of a kaleidoscope window. Dream waves.

❀

Somewhere, a baby is being born. That first cry, followed by many. Wriggling limbs coated in blood, ready for the walks of life. They are urged into their mother's arms, head limp against the mother's chest as they continue to cry, and they hear that vivacious heartbeat, unbeknownst to them.

That first heartbeat. Racing, pulsing. exhausted.

That first heartbeat. It becomes the last.

❀❀❀ ❀❀❀

give me back my infinity

i'm not ready to leave yet

Give it back.

i'm not supposed to die yet. i need that infinity. i need to see him again and tell him i love him but i cant open my eyes and i cant speak and nothing in me is working

This is no infinity.

How could it be, when I never even got to say it back?

❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀

When things die, they become part of the Earth.

Things don't simply cease to exist.

They are scattered in pieces across the soil and grass, over hills and valleys, through riverbanks and streams, atop mountains and below canyons, soaring through wind.

They are poured into brand new beating hearts, stuck to the sky like thumb tacks, pummeled and seared into driveways, trampled upon and yet they are free from pain.

These dead things create the world.

In loving memories forevermore. Dreams float up to the sky.

Painting it blue.

Every cloud, a soul. Every color, a dream.

I will paint the sky purple for you.

❀

❀

You're not done just yet.

There is one last thing you need to do before you go.

"George... please. Just a little longer, okay? I'm right here. Please, wake up."

❀

where are you?

❀

Waving through a telescope. He sits on the moon.

❀

he's waiting


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George is one who believes in second chances; it's just that he's too far gone to get his. His lungs are practically turning to stone, and without an oxygen tank and a tube in his nose, he may as well be dead on the floor.
> 
> One fateful night, he meets Dream, a mysterious boy with a strange affinity for nature, whose world is a little more than supernatural. It's magical.
> 
> (This is a story with VERY long chapters, filled with angst, sadness, and things related to that. tread carefully, but enjoy!!)

To George's surprise, his eyes crack open to the sound of thunder.

"Oh, George." It's Dream, in George's swivel chair once again, like he hasn't moved at all. George doesn't know how long he's been drifting for, but no matter what world he's in, it's as if Dream follows him there. "Can you... can you speak?"

George's eyes droop lazily. He keeps his fingers curled at the ledge of life, for those few crucial seconds.

"George, please... let me heal you. Just for a little bit," Dream pleads as if it's the end of his life. "I... I need to hear your voice. Please."

It makes George wonder, how does Dream heal? Through touch? Through space? What does Dream need to do to rethread the needle?

Dream slips his fingers through George's. "George, please. If you'll let me heal you, just... move your hand. Even if it's just a little. If you can."

George's eyes flick downward at their intertwined fingers. Dream's are shaking like the world's most calamitous earthquake. He would do anything to make it stop.

George looks back up at him and blinks slowly, the world he knows disappearing for a few more seconds.

He squeezes, a pitiful raindrop falling onto the tip of a nose.

"George... oh, god, George." Dream sniffles and slides off the chair, landing on his knees by George's bed. Pressing his forehead to their clasped hands, he takes a deep breath and fills the air with magic.

George blinks quicker this time.

Dream coughs.

"George?" he manages, the single syllable broken up by another cough.

"Dream."

"Oh my god, George. George." Dream's tears pour out all at once as he scrambles up towards George's face, cupping one cheek with a shivering hand. "I was terrified I'd never hear your voice again."

George's mouth manages to lift at one side. "Wouldn't be able to without you."

"Of course." Dream lets out what sounds like a mix between a scoff and a laugh.

And then he grimaces.

A faint light shines in his throat.

George knows what that means now.

"Dream... it's time, right? You know that. You can feel it," George whispers, his speech a sorry blend of mouth clicks and borrowed breath.

"No, no, no. Not yet. I'm not letting you go yet." Dream gulps, drowning the glowing orb in his throat. "I need to hear you. Please."

"Dream..."

"Please, George. I'm begging you. Just a little longer." A strangled groan gurgles in Dream's closed mouth. "I'm fine. Just..."

He needs to say it now.

"Dream, I love you."

Dream stops to stare, his shoulders rising and falling with each frantic breath he takes to keep the flower down in his body.

George's final shred of life. If Dream breathes it, they know it's all over.

"I... needed to tell you that, as soon as I could," George adds. "And... you need... to let me go."

Dream's face crumples inward, like a piece of paper. And George is the one crushing it.

"No more tears..." George wheezes, though he knows his words hold no value.

"Please, George," Dream retorts, a scoff infused in his tone, "you have no idea how many tears I've shed. I could fill the entire spring at the oasis and then some." He laughs, almost maniacally.

Do those tears become part of the Earth too?

"I love you, Dream. Okay?"

But Dream's tears only continue to drop onto George's sheets like grand waterfalls and torrential downpours.

How long does it take to fall in love?

Thank you for giving me enough time to find out.

"George... can I... can I get into bed with you? I just... want to hold you."

What is there left to hold?

But George nods anyway, sparing whatever breath he has left. Dream slides in under the covers, trying not to disturb the clouds that George will soon depart upon.

"Can I kiss you?" Dream asks.

God, what an idiot. I probably reek like a fucking dumpster and he still wants to kiss me.

George nods again, Dream's plump, petal-dipped lips meeting his for what feels like the first time ever.

He's holding his breath, George notices. As if he's just dived into deep, treacherous waters. Because he knows very well that he needs to come up for air a lot sooner than he normally would.

Dream pulls away and he's panting like he's just finished running a marathon.

"Dream... you just... needed to know..."

"What? What is it?" Dream grabs his hand, pulling it up between them.

"I just... I heard you say that you love me."

"I do. I do. I really, truly do."

George smiles and imagines himself down on one knee, at the altar, Dream uttering those same words.

"And... I didn't want you... ah, I didn't want to die... and then you live not knowing... I did too. So... I had to tell you."

How many moments does it take to fall in love?

Dream swallows, but the light in his throat continues to rise.

"Fuck, I didn't write a letter like you wanted me to."

They laugh together, a moment bold enough to overpower the electric explosions in the sky.

Just one.

Dream presses another kiss to the back of George's hand, his salty tears having coated his lips. George can feel their wetness on his hand.

"George... I love you. I really, truly love you."

George looks up to the sound of that declaration, finally. He can see. And Dream, reflecting off every moonbeam, the one who continues to stick to his dreams no matter how dark they are.

Dream sighs. George imagines a trail of flowers following the air that leaves his lungs.

"Are you scared?"

George feels like this is a common question to ask the dying. A lot of people fear death, desperately doing everything in their power to evade it. George knew his time would be cut short eventually, and he'd always believed he was ready for it.

But now?

"I'm fucking terrified."

Because when he's gone, there will be no more.

Some piece of him may continue to exist somewhere on Earth, but it's impossible to hold Dream with two arms, it's impossible to fall in love again, it's impossible to walk on two feet and drink coffee and smell the roses.

Had he more moments, perhaps he would get his little infinity.

But this isn't his reality.

His reality is now, waiting as the gory hands of a clock tick menacingly above his head, counting down his final seconds.

And he's terrified, because Dream will get to live and George won't get to be next to him in the form he wishes he could be.

"Always remember what I told you, okay?" Dream asks of him.

Which part?

Which part of our beautiful, tragic story would you like me to remember?

I would remember everything if I could.

George nods.

"I know... I know you're tired. Get some sleep, okay?" He smiles, lips together in a thin line, his life draining as he speaks. As George continues to breathe. "Get a good night's rest. I'll be here in the morning."

I know what you mean when you say that.

George nods.

"Okay."

Dream presses one last fat kiss to the back of George's hand.

"I love you."

The glow in Dream's neck, George watches it fade, watches as Dream's magic disappears, feels it disappear, evaporating from his body like rain.

Water droplets race to the bottom of the window, the moon's distorted light bouncing off each and every one of them. George has always loved the rain.

The little moon in Dream's throat is no more.

The light in the sky wanes as George's eyes close once again.

It's a nice night, isn't it?

George plays those words on repeat. The world is a turntable, spinning, carving its final songs into his soul. Scratching against every last lining of his body, down to his final cell, suffocating, struggling as the greedy little demons in his lungs steal every last atom of oxygen from him.

Yes.

A beautiful night indeed.

As if someone has plunged his head into frigid water, he gasps for breath, every muscle in his body begging for that air he needs so desperately, but it doesn't quite make it.

Cold.

Shallow breaths for drowning lungs, George lets his head swim.

This night will disappear. The sun and moon will continue to rise and set in an everlasting cycle.

And George will float, at least one particle of him, across the oceans, over mountains, through city streets and fields, winding paths of forests, arid gusts of desert Georged.

Say hello to every beating heart.

Make a pit stop by every fluttering leaf.

Take a detour just to smell the roses along the sun-ridden paths.

Admire the dark, and then the lights flashing through the tunnels.

Breathe.

Breathe.

❀

❀

❀

And let go.

❀

❀

❀

He waves in wide strokes as he paints the sky purple.

Look for me.

I will always look for you.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George is one who believes in second chances; it's just that he's too far gone to get his. His lungs are practically turning to stone, and without an oxygen tank and a tube in his nose, he may as well be dead on the floor.
> 
> One fateful night, he meets Dream, a mysterious boy with a strange affinity for nature, whose world is a little more than supernatural. It's magical.
> 
> (This is a story with VERY long chapters, filled with angst, sadness, and things related to that. tread carefully, but enjoy!!)

I think I've come to terms with dying.

I don't want to say I give up, per se, but I think I am. Slowly but surely.

I don't know exactly when I'm going to die. But if it happens, it happens, and I'll be ready for it.

In two weeks, I'll be starting my first week at university. I don't know what to expect or if anything good will come out of it, but who knows? Maybe I'll find something there. Something worth sticking around for, I guess.

I'm sure I'll be up to my neck in studying, so this journal will be the last thing on my mind. I'll probably just leave it here.

But if this does happen to be my last entry, if I die at university because someone decided to blow smoke in my face, or if I go into cardiac arrest in the middle of a drunken hookup (yeah right), just know that... I lived.

I was here.

This is my legacy, I guess. A journal with a total of three entries. Whoop-dee-do.

Ugh. Kinda wish I had a little more time to build a more impressive legacy, but this is what I have.

And... I guess I'm okay with it.

❀

George wakes up to a field of flowers.

Golden sun trickles into his eyes. A sunrise instead of a sunset, laying out a brand new beginning.

This must be heaven. He did say he wanted flowers.

Vibrant rainbows of all shapes and sizes.

And Dream, in the middle of it all. He's sleeping, that goofball! In broad daylight, surrounded by all this beauty!

George laughs, breathing in that fresh air.

He can breathe in heaven.

His lungs. They're lungs again, pink and fleshy and expanding and deflating with abundant air. He laughs again. Not a single grain of sand or salt chafing the delicate flesh. It flows in and out of him, a steady stream.

This is his heaven. This is it, his very own garden, his very own Dream, surrounded by bountiful colors. The comfort of familiarity, those same blue walls of his bedroom, the scent of his mother's breakfast, the same harmonious sun, ready to conduct a new day. It's not a black and white newspaper obituary with just his name printed among others. It's his little slice of heaven, where he gets to exist after death.

Being dead isn't so bad, after all.

He wonders what part of him is out there, though. Have they buried his body yet? Burned him to ashes? Have they shed the rest of their tears? How many days and moments have passed since George left his body to become the Earth instead?

But this? He could get used to this. The comfort of his own bed and the promise of the sun.

And Dream. His heaven comes with his very own rendition of Dream. Dream always stuck to his dreams like a stubborn piece of duct tape. Is this what death is, then? One big dream?

George doesn't want to wake up if this is what he gets to keep.

He's okay.

His bed is quite literally a bed of flowers. Every smooth, vibrant petal, layered around, under, over. Everywhere. The perfume of flora permeating every inch of the room. It's almost sickening, if he's being honest, but he supposes it beats the odor of death any day.

He huffs, that quick puff of air shooting out of him effortlessly, newfound determination humming inside him. He's ready to start his day.

"Dream," he says.

His voice startles him, no longer a breathless croak, but something different entirely. A certain brightness to it, a brand new timbre escapes him. His face erupts into an elated smile.

"Hey, Dream!" he tries again, reaching over to shake the boy's shoulders. "Wake up, sleepyhead!"

Dream must have had a rough night last night. He doesn't even flinch.

"Hey, Dream," George says, quieter this time. "Dream, wake up."

He shakes Dream's motionless form, the petals rustling.

Rustling?

"Dream?"

George nudges his body again, frowning as his eyes travel downwards.

Dream is covered in flowers. George shakes him again, but those flowers move with his unmoving limbs.

"Dream?" George says, louder. With every jerk of Dream's body, those flowers protruding from his arms...

Protruding?

George's frown deepens, brows creased in confusion as he continues to jostle Dream's body. "Hey, Dream, wake up!"

The boy does not stir once.

This is his heaven, right? Dream is supposed to wake up and he's supposed to take George to Paris so they can take illegal pictures of the Eiffel Tower at night. Not lying here, asleep. There's so much to do, so much to see...

What's his heaven without Dream?

"Dream...?"

He wears a garland of flowers around his head. It encases the entire shape of it, arching at the top and curling down at his jaw. The stream of flowers continues to flow downward, down his neck, spreading along the expanse of his exposed shoulder and collarbone, shrouding his arms in a plethora of little bulbs to fully grown blossoms.

With trembling fingertips, George reaches past the jungle of leaves and flowers to unveil Dream's face.

Through the foliage, in the spot where Dream's face should be, isn't what George woke up to.

It's not the face of a sunshine-kissed boy.

Jagged black lines wind through the pallid skin of a familiar portrait, over closed eyelids and bluish lips, like roots expanding underground. It looks like this person hasn't seen the sun despite the myriad of flora bursting from his skin.

This can't be his Dream.

But there are so many similarities about him too—through the greenery of the flower crown, he can spot patches of that same midnight black hair, there is still that mole punctuated below his left eye, and the one dotting the blue of his lips...

His frown morphs into a face of mortification.

What is he seeing?

This isn't Dream.

It can't be Dream.

Dream never looked like this. 

This is George's heaven.

Right?

Right?

George begins to heave with breaths that don't crackle, a luxury he's never had the pleasure of having before. It's still far from a pleasant feeling, but these breaths he's taking, they're not splitting apart, they're not getting stuck, they're going in and out like they're supposed to.

His head whips around frantically, but the sights haven't changed. He's within the walls of his bedroom, that same window overlooking that same backyard and that same garden Dream has been coddling lately because George was dying and this was Dream's parting gift to him.

Gasping for air, that unfamiliar air, his hands fly to his nose in search of his cannula. He needs his oxygen, he can't breathe—

Only to discover it has been discarded off to the opposite end of the room, along with his tank, abandoned and forgotten.

He swears it was by his bedside. He couldn't breathe without it, after all.

And yet...

He glances down at his hands to see short, skinny fingers, evenly wide and golden. Candied skin instead of malnourished. And fuck, he's hungry, stomach gnawing at every other organ inside him.

He feels his face, elastic and smooth, lips hydrated and plump. And it's not right, he's always hated his face, always dry and slave to the weather no matter what season it was.

Flummoxed, he stumbles out of his bed, tottering on his feet as he scrambles over to the bathroom to splash cold water in his face.

He looks up, face dripping, nearly unrecognizable.

What happened to those body bags under his eyes? The peeling skin of his chapped lips? The hollowed cheekbones belonging to a walking skeleton, the thinning hair, the wan features of a dying boy?

He almost falls backwards on his ass at the shock, his footsteps thunderous as he rushes back to the bed for another bewildered glimpse at the body in his bed.

There is only one person that field of flowers could be.

"W-Dream...?"

Nothing. Not a single flinch, not a semblance of breath.

"Hey, Dream! Dream, wake up! Wake up!"

George jostles the motionless body again with more force, but reels back as soon as one of the flowers detaches from his graying skin, falling onto the mattress in what looks like slow motion.

"It's kinda like pulling out a splinter."

Panting, George recoils even further.

There, laying in a bed of his very own flowers and George's old life, is his Dream.

"No... no, no, no..." George's breathing. Breathing. Panicked, lightning-struck breaths that flood his lungs, only to be expelled just as rapidly. His hands come up to grip his hair, tugging. He has to wake up. This isn't his heaven.

"Dream, wake up!" he screams, surging forward only to clutch the sheets with white knuckles, causing several lonely petals to flutter to the floor.

"George?" comes his mother's worried voice from his doorway.

Through teary eyes, he looks back, his entire body a pitiful tree trembling in a ruthless storm. His parents are standing there, stunned by the sight of their dying son on the floor.

Their eyes fall onto the ghastly display on George's bed shortly thereafter, their attention divided by the dead and the one who was supposed to be.

Dead.

"George, what... what is this?" his mother asks, her footsteps slow and cautious as she steps into the room, as if Dream would come back as a zombie and tear her heart out.

But no, George thinks, Dream wouldn't do that even as a ravenous, brainless creature.

"W-Dream... he..."

He looks back at his Dream, his gray face in the center of a garden.

"H-he..."

"Oh... oh, George." His parents crouch beside him. He can feel their warmth.

But not Dream's.

Because Dream isn't warm anymore.

Untouched by the sun, the morning beams bounce off of his flowers instead of him, a colorless corpse.

George had finally drained him of all his sunshine.

"No... no! No no no no no!" George screams into blue walls and unsaturated sunshine.

His parents' arms are around him instantly, holding him in an embrace that does nothing to stop his hysterical heart from pounding out of his chest, wanting nothing more than to feel Dream's beating again.

"Dream... Dream!"

Searing acid tears pour from his eyes, stinging on his freshly rejuvenated skin.

He was glowing next to me just last night.

"This isn't real... this isn't real... I'm dead. I'm dead!"

George rocks back and forth, wailing, wishing for his sunshine to come back to him, wanting nothing more than to touch that warmth again.

But he knows if he reaches out, more of those petals will drop from his skin, and endless splinters will slice his skin apart.

And Dream isn't warm anymore.

"George... I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry," his mother murmurs into his hair.

That's right. Dream had told them about his ability to heal. They must have known right away.

George can't believe it, how quickly he'd managed to forget about Dream's world of magic. Every time he healed George, his body produced a flower.

Byproducts of his withering life.

Exhibited right before his eyes.

A life that is no longer withering, but a life that is now gone.

"Dream... Dream..."

As if the anguished cries of his name were a spell George could cast to bring his love back to life, he wails in his parents arms, his own body at war with itself.

He can breathe, god damn it. But everything else, every muscle, every bone, screams for Dream, rivers of endless tears cascading down his cheeks. The fresh air in his body, those joyful atoms of oxygen bouncing around in him, are being fed into his heartache, his chest on fire but not because he's lacking air for once.

In fact, there's so much of it that the pain is back—all the pain he'd forgotten about because his body was made up of it, back with a vengeance. It's an all-consuming stormcloud of horror, the gruesome sight before him a pure nightmare to shatter his dreams.

That was supposed to be him.

He was supposed to be the lifeless corpse.

Every moment leading up to this one, dead and gone with the boy that brought them into his life.

And this is what Dream left him with.

Dream said he would grow an entire garden for George.

But he never said he would grow two.

❀

The pain in George's lungs now is incomparable.

He could feel them struggling as the air wormed its way into the cracks, but they never ached quite like this. An ache that starts with each breath he draws in and spreads like a wildfire throughout the rest of his body.

His body, now functioning at a pace he can't even comprehend. Even the colors he sees seem brighter, more vibrant and lively.

Is this how Dream saw the world?

He stands off to the side, his eyes stagnant straight ahead of him as Karl bawls in the background, kneeling by George's bedside. His woeful cries reverberate in George's ears, the starkest contrast to his typically tranquil demeanor, further shattering George's heart.

Quackity continues to stand, his gaze honed in on Dream's lifeless body, eerily silent.

What can George possibly do to console the ones who saw Dream to the very end? The ones who guided Dream and taught him the extent of the very power that brought George back to life?

Guilt erupts in George's chest.

It's my fault.

It's my fault your sunshine is gone.

They must resent him. If it hadn't been for George, this never would have happened. If Dream hadn't met George, they would still have him.

These generous beings welcomed George into a world that he should have never been a part of, and now, George finds himself wishing he hadn't gone out that night.

The instructions Quackity had delivered at the beginning were clear: nobody can know about the events that transpired. George's parents' agreements occurred in quick nods and words of consolation. Quackity didn't even need to hear George's.

George is responsible. He is walking evidence. He has the obligation to keep his mouth shut.

"We... we will transport his body back to our home," Quackity says, his emotion undetectable. "But for now, please... please let us be alone with him for a little while."

George can't even begin to imagine the heartache.

They watched Dream grow into the promising young man he was before George ripped his life away from him. They found him, guided him, raised him as if he were their own child. To lose a child at the hands of a pathetic, dying human is a tragedy that George cannot even begin to fathom.

He tears his eyes away and walks out. He is not worthy of their presence.

❀

Please be careful moving his body.

He told me that pulling flowers from his skin feels like pulling out a splinter.

If more fall out of him, his skin will split open, and I cannot bear to see that.

He doesn't need any more pain.

Please handle him with care.

George knows he has no right to ask that of them.

But they do it anyways, without George having to say any of it, because they too must know what it feels like. They were the ones who taught Dream that he could do it, after all.

Somehow, they're able to move Dream's body with a minimal amount of effort, as if it's nothing but a hollow shell that yields no weight, and only a few stray petals trail behind them.

George can't help but think about Dream's body as a cocoon, a cocoon of flowers hosting the boy who's just growing and developing even more. He'll come back when he's ready and fly into George's arms; he'll have wings like the fairies in the fairy tales and his body will be overflowing with so much magic that George would have to get his own pair of wings somehow just to keep up with him.

"George," Quackity says once Dream's body is stored in the backseat of their SUV. "Come with us."

"H-huh?"

Quackity sighs, his face tired, his skin paler than George remembers it to be. The face of a grieving parent.

"He would want you to be there. His funeral."

"W-where is it?"

"You know where it is."

George frowns, puzzled.

Indeed, he knows where it would be.

But why would Quackity ask this of him?

To get George alone and avenge their dead child's life?

At this point, George feels like he wouldn't mind it. He was supposed to die after all.

"This is a matter that must be dealt with privately, I hope you understand," Quackity says. "It's... rare, when fairies die. We'll have to report this to the Council, of course, but whatever you do, do not go around telling your human friends about what happened. Dream's life... it is in your hands now."

George feels his blood run cold.

But Quackity is right—he has blood on his hands now. Dream's blood.

And the last thing he wanted to do was hurt Dream.

"The Council will work to help cover this up. Your task is to make sure you don't tell anybody that Dream brought you back to life. Do you understand?"

George nods, swallowing apprehensively at Quackity's intense, scrutinizing glare.

With a final, exhausted sigh, Quackity rounds the car to the driver's seat as George takes up one of the backseats, right next to Dream's body.

He feels sick.

The drive is dead silent. George's parents had barely said goodbye, still reeling from the shock. But George knows he will have to return to them soon enough, once Dream's funeral, whatever that consists of, is over.

George's university life as he knows it is over.

"Quackity, Karl," George mumbles, "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry."

I'm sorry I did this.

"I didn't... I didn't mean for this to happen. I really didn't." His bottom lip quivers as more tears rise to his eyes. His stomach is clawing at the rest of him, empty and aching, every part of him trembling violently as more sobs escape him.

"We know, George," Karl says. George catches a glimpse of Karl's pensive stare in the rear view mirror. Empty.

"This is not your fault, George. You feel that way, don't you? You feel as if you are responsible for Dream's death?" Quackity asks.

"I-I..."

"It's not your fault," Karl repeats. "We are not upset with you."

"You did not kill him," Quackity says.

George stares out the window, blurred images of a newly revived world flashing before his eyes, but it appears as if they're moving backwards, like a film rewinding.

"What's... what's gonna happen?" George asks in a whimper. "I was dying... and I can breathe now... how will I be able to explain that?"

It takes Quackity several seconds to answer.

"Fairies are everywhere, George, including the medical field. They will know what happened. As for humans... they will certainly see it as nothing short of a miracle."

"You're a walking miracle, George."

The words are clear as day.

Did Dream know? Did Dream know that George would live and become the very thing he said George was?

I was never a miracle, Dream.

You made me one.

❀

It's not your fault.

You know that, don't you?

Listen to me.

Can you hear the trees?

Can you smell those flowers?


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George is one who believes in second chances; it's just that he's too far gone to get his. His lungs are practically turning to stone, and without an oxygen tank and a tube in his nose, he may as well be dead on the floor.
> 
> One fateful night, he meets Dream, a mysterious boy with a strange affinity for nature, whose world is a little more than supernatural. It's magical.
> 
> (This is a story with VERY long chapters, filled with angst, sadness, and things related to that. tread carefully, but enjoy!!)

"Quackity... when I bring something back to life, what happens to it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Like, say I bring a deer back to life or something after it gets attacked. Will its injuries heal? Will it be up and running again?"

"Well, bringing something back to life is like giving it a piece of your life. And you know what fairies are capable of. Enhanced healing abilities, resistance to illness... whatever organism you bring back may not become immortal or develop powers like us, but it is almost guaranteed to live an extraordinarily healthy life. Whatever ailed the organism will heal as soon as it is brought back, including any injuries. Any physical scars will remain, but there will be no pain, no hindrance to the organism's life. Whatever you bring back will live as if they are a fairy... minus the powers and immortality."

"Giving a piece of my life... so, like, if I were to bring a person back to life..."

"It would be the same as giving your life to them. Remember what I told you about balance? That the bigger the organism, the more energy it consumes? If you were to bring back a person, the transfer of life energy is absolute. You would be using all of your life energy... wait a second, why are you asking me this? I thought I told you to be careful with that power, Dream!"

"I'm just wondering! I... just wanted to make sure is all. I don't want to go using that power without knowing the full extent of it, you know?"

"Of course... it is always good to be cautious. Now, how was your first day?"

❀

The oasis has never been so miserable.

George has only ever known the place to be a sanctuary, a magical getaway for him and Dream where they would lie on the emerald grass that never once dulled and listen to the soothing water stream into the spring.

Never did he once think it would become a gravesite for a boy who loved the place with all his heart.

It was the place he escaped to when he needed to recover from healing George. And now, it houses his body.

How gut-wrenching it must have been for Quackity and Karl to hold Dream's body down the winding paths. Stepping over thick grounded roots and growing fronds, careful not to disturb the flowers that mar Dream's skin.

They place the body down at the edge of the pool.

And George watches in nauseous fascination as the grass around him begins to grow , the strands of Earth crawling up Dream's body and merging with the flowers that stick out from his skin, enveloping him in his own botanical casket.

It's a hauntingly majestic display of vibrance and death, and it makes George's organs churn.

"How... how is it doing that?" he thinks aloud.

"This place is filled with magic," Quackity says, monotone. "Nature knows this was his favorite place. It was his safe haven. It only stands to reason... that it will continue to protect him."

"Protect him..."

Something George could never do.

Instead, he took Dream's life.

The three of them stare down at the webs of grass and other flora criss-crossing over Dream's body until just his face remains, ashen and emotionless.

I saw him smiling just the other night.

George wants nothing more than for the foliage to start moving, for the lines buried under Dream's face to recede back to where they came from, for the sun to return to him. But alas, no matter how much George wishes, it will never be delivered to him.

And he doesn't even deserve it.

Selfish.

That's all he was. All he is.

"I'm sorry," Karl speaks up suddenly, a sob breaking out of him. "I just... I need a moment."

He turns on his heels and strides past the curtain of leaves, out of the oasis.

How excruciating it must be, having to hold a makeshift funeral service for the boy he raised with the boy who killed him.

"Quackity," George says. The air is still around them, not a single tree swaying. The wind is absent. The birds are gone, as if they know to stay away. "I know you and Karl said that it wasn't my fault... but I just... I can't stop feeling like it was. If... if only I hadn't been so selfish..."

"Why do you think that?" Quackity barely forms it as a question, his gaze still focused on Dream's body.

"He... he did so much for me. And I can't help but feel like I took it all for granted. I was careless, didn't even try to take care of myself because I was just so set on dying, and he was always trying to get me to take better care of myself but I just didn't listen. He was healing me and I blew up on him, and... if only I'd told him no... if only he didn't follow me home..."

George chews on his bottom lip, feeling his entire life's worth of tears rising again as he lowers his head in utter shame.

"I could've stopped this," he says.

There is a long pause, one filled with nothing but silence. As if nature itself is mourning.

And then, Quackity sighs.

"Does it matter now, George?"

Bewildered, George instantly shifts his gaze to Quackity's unmoving form. He hasn't looked away once, hasn't shown any signs of moving, a talking statue.

"If I am being truthful, George... I had my suspicions from the very beginning."

George's eyes widen. "Wh-what? What do you mean?"

"Dream was obsessed with his healing ability. He would ask Karl and I about it constantly. He wanted to be sure of its power. You're right; if he hadn't followed you home, perhaps this wouldn't have happened. But George... you realize that Karl and I were the ones who enabled him to, right?"

"Quackity... what are you..."

Quackity finally lifts his head, his eyes raised to the baby blue sky. "Maybe, deep down, I knew this would happen. Perhaps I just didn't want to believe it." He scoffs, shaking his head. "Honestly, George, even if we hadn't gone home with you, I feel as if Dream would have found a way to find you. I think... just as much as you were set on dying, he was set on saving you."

"But why, Quackity? Why me? What was so special about me that he made him want to revive me? I'm nothing. I was nothing but a burden to him and so many people around me—"

"Stop that, George." Quackity's sudden change in tone catches George off guard; he hasn't heard Quackity sound so assertive before. "Do you think you are truly the only one responsible for his death? Like I said, Karl and I were the ones who drove him to your home. We let him out into the world. We let him see you. There are so many ways to think about this, so much blame that we could place, but what good would it do, George? Would regret and remorse bring Dream back to life?"

George witnesses Quackity's calm and collected demeanor crumble for the first time, his expression finally morphing into one of true, unadulterated sorrow.

"Dream was his own person. He made his own decisions. Whether or not he knew the impact of his actions, nobody knows. One may argue that what Dream was doing by healing you was selfish, but do you think he saw it that way? Do you think he saw you as a selfish person?" Quackity huffs as he shakes his head again. "Raising all of these questions will bring nothing but pure misery. They will eat away at us from the inside out. If we dwell on the what if's and the regrets and the do-overs, nobody gets a happy ending."

He turns to George, his tears as clear and vivid as the spring.

"I loved him as if he were my own son, George." Quackity whimpers then, voice ablaze with agony. "Don't you dare think this isn't tearing me apart. But I know... I know we cannot go on like this."

He finally moves, turning on the soles of his feet to face George, shimmering eyes boring into his. His face deflates, as if all of the emotions have washed over him at once, leaving him exhausted.

"Dream's magic... it flows through you now. I can feel it." He glances down, eyes roving over George's body. "You wield his life now, George. It is irreversibly intertwined with yours. And so, you must live on. Do not let my son's magic die. Please."

Hearing Quackity call Dream his son makes every rib in George's body crack.

"B-but... how..."

"I don't know, George. You just have to. You have to, just like Karl and I must."

"But I could always... I could always relapse, I could just... get sick again..."

"It's impossible now." Quackity chuckles incredulously. "Did Dream not tell you? When a fairy revives an organism, it gains the healing capabilities of one. You may not become immortal or gain any fairy powers, but you are guaranteed an impossibly healthy life, George. That was Dream's gift to you."

George can't remember the last time he was ever healthy. He wouldn't even consider the time before his diagnosis to be healthy; those years leading up to that dreadful day were just teasing him with the hope of a healthy life. He was never guaranteed one, because he was destined to die.

But now?

How is he supposed to feel, knowing now that Dream's last gift is the ability to live?

"Those scars in your lungs won't disappear," Quackity says, "but they function just as a fairy's would, and they always will. You will never get sick again, even if it's just a cold. If you get injured, it will heal at an accelerated rate. With Dream's life, you gained his strength. And so—"

Quackity points a finger at him that bestows upon him all the responsibility in the world.

"—you better take care of your life. It's his life too. Do you understand me?"

George swallows, the wind knocked out of him, and nods.

Quackity closes his eyes and lets his head and tears finally fall.

"George," he says, head bowed, "I believe... this is for you. We found it under all the flowers." He procures a piece of folded notebook paper from his back pocket and hands it to George. "Maybe this will give you a glimpse into his thoughts. Maybe this will help you understand why he did what he did."

"You didn't read it?" George questions, hesitantly taking the piece of paper that feels like a brick in his palm.

Quackity shakes his head. "I don't think I could ever bring myself to. Whether you decide to read it or not, that's up to you. But I believe this is his final letter to you, and it may be in your best interest to read it."

George glances down at it. It's wrinkled, folded haphazardly, and the torn-off edge is still curly, the serrated seam still intact.

It's so Dream.

Quackity bids him farewell after several more minutes of grieving silence once George promises he can find his way back. He wants to stay, wants to be with Dream for just a little longer before he has to say goodbye to this tiny world of magic forever.

Though he wonders... will he be able to return, now that Dream's magic apparently thrives in his veins?

Will he really have to say goodbye forever?

Or is this just the very beginning?

He crouches by Dream's body, knees pulled up to his chest and head buried into them as he attempts to drown his thoughts, suppress every what if and regret and do-over just as Quackity told him to, but how can he? How can he possibly do that when evidence of his guilt is lying dead and gone right next to him?

He wants to leave. He needs to leave.

And yet, he finds himself completely still, his feet glued to the ground.

He releases a shaky breath, feeling his eyes begin to dry up and swell.

"You have no idea how many tears I've shed. I could fill the entire spring at the oasis and then some."

George stares out into the serene water and wonders just how many drops belonged to Dream.

And as he wonders, the surface ripples, until a halo of golden hair rises from the deep blue.

"Wilbur?"

The water nymph wordlessly maneuvers to the spring's edge, his movements smooth and seemingly effortless, as if walking in water is akin to walking on land. He approaches Dream's casket with his head tilted in curiosity, his expression entirely neutral.

"Oh, Dream... so this is how it ended," he says, lamentful.

"He was always here, wasn't he?" George questions.

Wilbur nods, perfect little water droplets landing on the blades of grass surrounding Dream's body. He reaches out to touch the casket, the little green strands following his hand's movement like moths to a flame.

"He would rest here. And nature would shield him, just like this." Wilbur runs his hand along the foliage. "This time is no different."

"It would?"

"Mm. The grass would bend and grow to blanket his body, just like it is right now." Strangely enough, Wilbur appears as if he's smiling, just a little bit, in the presence of a dead Dream.

How?

"George... I hope you know that you are a very special person to him."

"Was," George corrects, "I was. "

Wilbur shakes his head, his faint smile disappearing. "He is not gone, George. You may not be able to hear his voice. You may not be able to feel him like you once did. But he is right there."

He lifts his other hand and points directly at George.

"I don't get it," George says. "Quackity said the same thing. That he's, like, a part of me now."

"He is correct. You may not be able to comprehend it, or feel it, but it is an irrefutable fact. Dream lives on in you. And..." He glances up, his head turning, observing the world at all angles. "He is somewhere else, too. Perhaps you will see him again someday."

George pouts and has enough energy to let out a semi-amused huff. "Magical creatures are weird."

Wilbur chuckles, his smile somehow managing to ease some of George's tension. It's an odd sensation, feeling that same weightlessness he would experience when he was here with Dream.

"As you know, Dream came here a lot, both with and without you. But I wonder if he ever told you the things he has told me," Wilbur says.

"Huh?"

Wilbur's smile only twitches upwards again, his eyes closing in a reminiscent trance. "Yes. He would come to replenish his magic, but he would always, without fail, speak of you. He would go on and on about how much he adores you, and nature... my entire oasis... felt it too. The immense love he had for you." He nods.

"I did not know it would turn out this way. But I understand why it did. He could not envision the world without you. Everything he did, he wanted to do with you. While it is true that all living things become part of the Earth... perhaps Dream wanted to ensure that it was him who got to see you live, not the other way around."

George sighs and shakes his head, clutching the piece of paper tighter in his grasp. "I still don't understand. I don't understand how he could just... give up everything."

Wilbur's eyes fall to George's closed fist. "Perhaps you should read that, George. Dream told me a lot, but he did not tell me everything. All of your questions may be answered if you read that. Or... most of them, at least."

George looks down at it too, now a crumpled lump between his fingers.

If he won't read the last of Dream's legacy, who will?

"I understand if you do not want to read it anytime soon," Wilbur says, "but I think you should read it when the time feels right. When your head and heart are aligned, and the sun shines differently, and the trees dance confidently..." He nods again, eyes closed. "Yes. Your sign will come soon enough, George. You will know."

What sign, George wants to ask. But he's exhausted and hungry and in so much pain, that he can't bring himself to raise any more questions or pick any more arguments. He wants to go home, wherever that may be for tonight.

Home ends up being back at Quackity and Karl's, where dinner is silent but so rejuvenating. George can't remember the last time he ate, and, get this—Quackity cooks his favorite vegetables.

The silence is not overwhelmed by anguish or spite; it is a strangely comfortable silence, one that speaks to George and tells him, everything is okay, though he hears no words.

It is as if George hadn't seen Quackity and Karl in their most wrecked states just hours prior.

"Stay the night," Quackity insists. "We will drive you back to your home in the morning."

It takes every ounce of bravery for George to climb those stairs, up to Dream's bedroom, those same walls that had witnessed Dream's love for him blossom. It's exactly how George remembers it, as if Dream had never actually left. Every little detail is in place, down to the honey-infused scent of fruit and flowers. Warm and welcoming, a breeze of familiarity suddenly floods George's body.

I've missed this place.

The room is immaculate, much tidier than George remembers it. He wonders if Quackity and Karl had cleaned up before his arrival... or if Dream had cleaned before he left to stay by George's side.

It's almost as if he knew he needed to.

What catches George's attention the most, however, is the piece of white paper placed in the center of Dream's desk, folded neatly, under a crystal flower paperweight. It's so conspicuous, so out of place in comparison to the tidiness of the rest of the room.

Frowning, George removes the paper, its weight familiar to him. He thought the piece of paper Quackity had given to him was Dream's final letter...

And then he opens it, nostalgia filling his blood as his eyes read over every letter in Dream's childlike penmanship.

10 Things I Hate About George

1: He's so fucking set on dying, man. How can one be so sure of what's going to happen tomorrow? For all we know, I could be the one who dies tomorrow, not him.

2: It took him so goddamn long to get straps for his tank. That must mean he's indecisive, a procrastinator, lazy, or all three.

3: He thinks his illness is all there is to him. You realize there's a whole human being surrounding those lungs, right?

4: He TALKS like his illness is all there is to him. Tell me your hopes and dreams, George. Not the hypothetical ones that exist only if your lungs were healthy. Not the ones you wish you could achieve if they were realistic. Tell me ALL of them.

5: He walks really slow, but I accredit that to his defective lungs so I give him a pass on that one.

6: He acts like he knows it all. He doesn't. Because things change, and life is unpredictable, no matter how short.

7: He doesn't try to give himself more time. If I were him, I would fight until the very end, live as many seconds as I can before I go. But I'm hoping, praying to anything or anyone that will listen, that he finds his own purpose for going on. Not mine. Not Sapnap's or Techno's. Not his parents'.

His very own.

8: He thinks everything is pointless because he's going to die in the end.

But don't all humans die in the end? Is everything pointless to them?

We aren't helping him because we pity him or because we feel guilty that he's dying and we aren't. We're helping him because we want to, because we want to keep the sunshine in our lives for as long as we can.

It's what we do with our time alive that defines who we are. Not the amount of time we have left, or our ailments, or our faults and flaws.

And I want him to see everything that he is, not just his illness, before he goes.

9: This is less of a thing I hate about him, and more of a thing I hate because of him.

Today I found out that he is truly, truly terminal. Stage three lung cancer combined with idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis is going to take him from this Earth. He has whatever time he has left, and that's it.

How many golden moments can one squeeze into a day? A half hour? One minute? Thirty years? I know that George won't get even close to the last one. For all I know, he could die tomorrow.

Time is the truest tragedy of life, yet everything that happens in life is measured in it. How long is that infinite moment going to last? How many days does everyone have left? What's going to happen in the next few minutes?

I hate it. I hate that everything has to be measured in time. I wish life were measured in moments instead. I wish that the two could be separate entities, that they can exist without coexisting. That moments could happen and last however long. That we could be stuck in some permanent golden moment where we can live and do things as if time won't tear us apart.

I want to live as many golden moments with him as I can.

And, get this: I think I might be in love with him.

10: There is nothing left for me to hate about him. Because I love him and everything about him.  
________

George's fingers curl in on the poor piece of paper, locking it in a death grip as fat tears land on the white surface, black ink smearing in the tiny puddles.

He'd almost forgotten about this piece and that moment in the dining hall.

"I need to find more things to hate about you," Dream had said, almost comically. He'd said it with a smile, too. George knew Dream never hated him, and probably wrote this for the sake of more comic relief to make George feel a little better, give him a piece of his own cynical-yet-not-cynical humor.

Perhaps these weren't things that Dream hated about George, but rather, the things he wished he could change for him.

The last two, however, make George's heart shrivel up in his chest and drop to his stomach.

How blind did you become to love someone like me?

George collapses on his back onto Dream's bed, Dream's poem pressed up to his chest. The pink hue of the curtains cast a cotton candy film over George's vision, akin to a magical mist of some sort, teary eyes slipping shut as hiccups break past his fragile throat.

It makes him wonder what could be more heartbreaking than this.

Could the words behind those blue lines of the notebook paper be more world-crushing than this poem?

If that's the case, George isn't sure if he wants the sun to shine differently or not.

❀

George returns home as promised, and his parents welcome him with half-smiles and comforting shoulder rubs. Quackity slips another scrap of paper into George's hands before they leave, which ends up being their phone numbers. George almost wants to throw it away, erase his affiliation with fairies entirely, when he remembers what both Quackity and Wilbur had told him.

He is unable to feel it, but apparently, Dream lives on in him.

He throws the scrap into one of his drawers and climbs into his bed, now devoid of all the petals, as if Dream's death had been erased from the sheets.

George gazes out into the backyard, the sun high above the horizon, beating down on the garden Dream had bequeathed to him and his family. Mere minutes later, his mother appears to water it.

She turns around and waves, a familiar silhouette waving behind her.

George can't help but smile.

He waves back.

❀

George's parents take him in for an inevitable examination, where Dr. Lee walks into room 117 and freezes at the sight of George's now cannula-less nose.

"George, where is your oxygen?" he asks, wide-eyed.

George inhales through his teeth, glancing at his parents nervously as he answers, "Well... I feel much better."

"Much better?" Dr. Lee's face twists in confusion and shock as he steps further into the room, his head leaning forward slightly, scrutinizing George's features. "You... certainly look the part."

George attempts a genuine smile as Dr. Lee prepares for his examination.

Pulse: normal.

Blood pressure: normal.

Oxygen levels: normal.

Lung function: one hundred percent.

"What in the world?" Dr. Lee's voice rises several octaves as soon as the spirometry test is completed. Even the technician accompanying him stares at the result in utter shock, jaw dropped and eyes bugged out.

George smothers a laugh. "George... we sent a palliative nurse to your home just a few weeks ago... and your lung function is at a hundred percent now?" Dr. Lee nearly exclaims, suppressing his disbelief in favor of keeping the hospital a peaceful place.

"He did great," George quips, a smile breaking out on his face.

"This is... this is absolutely absurd. I'm genuinely at a loss for words." Dr. Lee gawks at his clipboard and whatever's written on it, flipping through the mini mountain of pages before practically tossing it down on one of the counters. "I'm requesting image scans at once." On his way out, George can hear him muttering to himself, barely coherent words, but George swears he can hear an f-bomb thrown in there somewhere.

George waits with his parents in silence. His father falls asleep and his mother is probably reading the local news on her phone, while George stares out the wires of the window to watch the humdrum of the hospital, when a familiar face passes by.

Dream approaches the nurse's station and hands over some paperwork. When he turns around, his eyes lock right on George's.

He smirks.

And winks.

His grin grows as he walks away, probably in response to George's absolutely bewildered face. George continues to stare, slack-jawed and flabbergasted, and it's only when Dr. Lee returns to collect George for image testing that he snaps out of his confused trance.

He's calm when he enters the tube, not a trace of anxiousness that he can feel. He's certainly curious to see what his scans will show. Quackity did say his scars won't go away, but George has this feeling deep in his gut that there's something else, a factor inside him that Quackity would never know about.

It's as if time freezes when he's shown the results.

The consolidation in George's lungs is still very visible, but the whiteness shows signs of shaping—instead of a collective white mass, the white is divided into petal-shaped clumps.

"I have never seen anything like this in my life," Dr. Lee says, running his hand along his wrinkled forehead. "Never. Ever. In all the case studies I've done, every scan I've ever conducted, this has never happened. I don't even know what this is. Consolidation doesn't just... take shape like this."

Dr. Lee is right; the consolidation has shape now.

Flower-like shapes. Black centers with white petals.

If someone were to cut George open and look at his lungs, he wonders what they would see.

Did Dream grow a third garden inside him?

Dr. Lee shakes his head incredulously, letting out a laugh that's borderline hysterical. "This is unbelievable, George. You were diagnosed with idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis and stage three lung cancer. You were terminal, and now, your lung function is at a hundred percent, all of your tests came back normal... fucking hell, George, this is a heaven-sent miracle."

George nearly snorts at Dr. Lee's break in professionalism.

"I'm... I'm astounded. At a complete loss for words." At this point, Dr. Lee starts rambling to himself instead of telling George about what this means for him, if he'll have to continue treatments and getting tested, but George figures, he's an adult now.

He can handle it on his own.

He's guaranteed a healthy life, after all.

However, after more muttering on Dr. Lee's part, George is scheduled for another checkup in three weeks to make sure he's still, well, alive. But he already knows he will be, and all of his levels will be normal, and his lung function will be at a hundred percent, and those flowers are still going to be in his lungs.

As he walks out, his father throws an arm around his shoulder and tugs him into a half-hug.

George stops just to give him a full one.

"A heaven-sent miracle," his father repeats.

"Dream," George mumbles. "It's Dream. Not me."

His mother joins the embrace with a sigh. "It's both of you, sweetheart. Both of you are miracles."

George bites his bottom lip just to stop the tears, but to no avail. The wound is still deep and fresh; his lungs may be working again but his heart isn't quite there. Instead of a downpour, it's a trickle—the tears are few but they still burn his cheeks and send more waves of guilt down to his stomach. His parents squeeze him tighter, whispering their condolences and "It's okay"'s into the air.

Drives are filled with silence nowadays. George just doesn't have much to say. His thoughts are still full of Dream as his head rests against the glass, bumping with each little piece of gravel they drive over. He breathes deeply, savoring each one as he watches the road fly by in flash-forward images.

Dinner is also silent, with the exception of his mother asking, "Do you think you'd want to return to school?"

"I don't know," George answers honestly.

There's so much pain back at that school, too many reminders of what once was that George knows he can't bear right now. He wonders if it will ever become bearable. If he does decide to go back to school, perhaps it could be another one, but if he doesn't go back, if he chooses to forget, he would be leaving not just Quackity and Karl, but Sapnap and Techno in the dust. After all, his friends are under the impression that he's dead.

He knows he can't tell any other people about Dream. But that doesn't mean he can't return.

"I'll think about it."

His parents nod understandingly. "Whenever you're ready," his mother says. "We'll support whatever you decide to do."

George isn't so sure anymore. He'd gone to university for literature, saying that he would write if he had more time on the planet, but now that he actually does, he is unsure of what he would write about, or if he'd actually go anywhere with that. He ponders it at night, the moon shrouded behind its own shadow, as another tortured slumber falls over him.

❀

George always imagined Dream meeting his parents on a temperate summer day, where they would sit out on the porch and sip lemonade from glasses halfway filled with ice, maybe with those little toothpick umbrellas. He still imagines it, even when that very day arrives, cold condensation seeping into his fingertips as he watches his mother water the garden. Dream had already met his parents a few months ago while George lay dying in a hospital, but that doesn't stop George from dreaming.

He daydreams, a bubble cloud floating above his head where Dream is next to him, wearing a silly straw hat and obnoxious sunglasses as he gloats about the garden he grew and laughs that squeaky laugh of his, like a dog toy being used as a stress ball.

His daydreams never come true, and he never expects them to, but that doesn't stop him from picturing the scenarios that could've been, if both of them had lived.

It's not quite a tragedy, George thinks. In tragedies, everybody dies in the end. It's a fraction of a tragedy, an unbalanced equation that could never be solved, because no matter what, one of them wasn't going to make it out alive. George just never counted on him being the one that got to stay.

For some reason, the tears don't return to him. He peers up at the sky, not a single cloud among the vast blue blanket, the sun a soft white glow smack dab in the center.

"You'll go blind if you stare at the sun for too long!" his mother had told him once.

But George finds himself staring at it anyway. It's like a snowball in the sky, he thinks.

"Hey, George!" his mother calls. "I think the carrots are ready for harvest! The peppers aren't quite ready yet, but I could pick some up from the market and we can try our hand at making Quackity's vegetables! How does that sound?"

George chuckles. "Sounds good!"

He takes a deep breath and stares up at the sun some more.

❀

It's been a few months since George last saw Quackity, and, in turn, was the last time he had Quackity's vegetables.

They're not the same, but George can still taste the love his mother put into them. He eats his entire portion, along with some rice and beef strips his father grilled out on the porch and washes it down with the rest of his lemonade.

He sees his parents smiling as they watch him stuff his face, and he's sure they're thinking, It's good to see you eat again.

❀

It's strange, how mercurial the weather can be. During the day, George will be sun-washed, basking in the mild heat of the sun, and at night, he'll watch the trees shiver outside with signs of an oncoming storm. He swears it wasn't that humid outside.

The moon hides behind the trees as if it's not quite ready to be seen yet, but George still finds his way to look at it, kneeling by his window and resting his hands and chin on the sill.

The last time he'd seen a storm like this...

"I'll be here in the morning."

George supposes he was right. He was there in the morning, but not with him. George has since started to fill that space, his limbs spread out across the bed like a marionette when he tosses and turns in his sleep. The tears and nightmares are less frequent now, but there is still the occasional day where George wants nothing more than to rewind time, do what Dream always said he would do for George.

Bend time.

George sighs, tilting his head, and his eyes land on his desk.

"When your head and heart are aligned, and the sun shines differently, and the trees dance confidently..."

He turns his head to look out the window again, seeing those same trees swaying smoothly in the vigorous wind.

"Your sign will come soon enough, George. You will know."

George stands up slowly, knees popping as he does, and pads over to his desk without a thought, as if he is a magnet being drawn to his other half.

The notebook paper is still folded a wrinkly mess in his drawer.

With a bated breath lodged in his throat, he unfolds it, his heart aflame as his eyes land on tightly-packed letters and scribbles.

❀

Do not stand at my grave and weep

I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning's hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry;

I am not there. I did not die.

-Mary Elizabeth Frye

I found this poem while I was doing research for my creative writing class. It really sat with me, because you know, everything that dies becomes part of the Earth. Seems that Mary Elizabeth had the same thought. Maybe she was a fairy too!

(I would have written one myself, but I'm not good with words, which is why I took a creative writing course in the first place. And I would turn this in as my final project, but my professor would be extremely confused.)

Here's the thing, I'm not sure who'll end up reading this. It could be Quackity or Karl... or even George. But whoever is reading this, I just want to say I'm sorry. I know you must be really sad. I promise you, though, it's okay. I don't regret a thing. And I hope you don't regret anything either.

I met George late last summer, on my first day of university. He had a tube in his nose and a tank of oxygen because he has this thing called pulmonary fibrosis and his lungs are really shitty. I was just admiring some of the university's flowers (which were really well-kept by the way!) when they whispered to me about a dying boy who needed a friend. Lo and behold, I turned my head and found that dying boy just meters away. The flowers kept whispering to me, I could trust that boy with my life. I didn't know what they meant by that at the time, but now... I think I do.

George is going to die soon. Tomorrow, Quackity and Karl are driving me to George's hometown so I can be with him during his final days. But the truth is... these won't be his final days. I won't let them be. He has so many more days ahead of him, so many more moments to live. And I'm going to make sure that happens.

I'm sure it'll hurt, but George has been living with this disease for seven years. It's been killing him slowly all this time. My life leaving my body in one night wouldn't even begin to compare to his life leaving him over the course of seven years. I'm not scared. Because I know I'm not going to die. My current body may die, but I won't. I know I won't.

So this is where I sign my life to George. And George, if you're reading this, I want to tell you all the things I'm too scared to tell you in real life.

I know that by doing this, I'm breaking my promise to you. I know I said I wouldn't heal you anymore. That was a big fat lie. I'm a selfish coward, and I understand if you're angry. I do. But I want you to understand, I'm not doing this just to save you, or because I want to be the hero. 

I thought that I would just befriend you, you know. I didn't take into account that I would actually fall for your cynical ass. I know you used that humor of yours to cope with the fact that you were actually dying, because it made the fact a little less heavy. It gave you something to laugh about despite all the pain. I understand that now. I understand a lot more things now than I did at the beginning. And because of that, I am doing this.

I'm not doing this just for you, but for me as well.

As you know, fairies live forever. They don't age and don't die unless they're beheaded or something. I keep thinking to myself, do I really want to live forever? Do I really want to live my days as somebody whose life never really changes? I could do a whole lot of things in my lifespan, George. I could have an infinite amount of golden moments. But maybe I don't want to. Because it won't end.

That's something I found to be quite special about humans: their mortality. The beauty of a finite lifespan. Some people want to live their life to the fullest, and their limited time is what motivates them. Me? I have it too easy. The things I could do in my life... possibilities are endless. Through being by your side over the course of this year, I discovered that I don't want that.

Because here's the thing. Georgie, I would rather die knowing you got to live a full lifespan than live an endless one without you.

Some people have it too short. They don't get to live their life to the fullest because they can't. They don't have all their golden moments handed to them because there isn't enough time. You were one of those people. I witnessed your pain eat away at you and your resolve. I heard all your cynical comments. You constantly wished you could have more time so you can do the things you want to do, and that was what stopped you from viewing the world the way I did.

I told you I'd bend time for you if I could. So... I will.

I understand if you're angry. I really do. I understand if you think I'm selfish or stupid and everything in between. And maybe I am. Because I know that while I gave you your infinite moments, I won't be by your side in the way you want me to be. I could say "I'll always be with you" all I want, but I know that you won't be able to see me or feel me in the Earth. You probably want me to be with you as you live through all your moments. And trust me, George, I wish I could too.

But... you just have to. You have to live, George. You have to live all of your moments because while I gave you life, it's still not forever. You have to travel, see all there is to see, meet all the people there are to meet. Live as if every moment is your last one.

And when your body is ready, you may depart. But only when your body can no longer go on. I estimate that you'll be about 120 years old as long as you don't get beheaded or something.

I won't be by your side in a physical body, but I will watch you through the wind. I'll be in the rain that you love so much. I'll be everything in that poem and then some.

You'll just have to look for me!

So, George, there are two things I ask of you before I go.

Live without me, but don't you forget about me.

I'll be seeing you in about 99 years, Georgie. Don't forget it!

Love, Dream

❀

A crackle of thunder rips through the sky, a bright flash of lightning bursting in George's vision.

Are you in the lightning too, Dream?

He crawls back over to the window and watches the trees stir even more as the rain begins to pound onto the hardy earth.

His eyes flit over to the garden, their vines coiled around each other as if to protect one another.

George looks above the tips of the trees at the midnight void, and watches the jagged lines of purple lightning split the sky. It's as if George can hear him, even now.

That booming, overbearing voice of his, shouting, "You better look for me!"

George breaks out into a laugh, blinking back the tears he thought he'd flushed out.

"You know I will."


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue

George was deemed a walking miracle from the beginning of his new life. Baffled, doctors scrambled to figure out the cause of his sudden recovery, spent months examining his case file and reviewing the evolution of his image scans, but alas, nobody could find the cause. George refused biopsies, and there was nothing they could do about that.

With his lung function at one hundred percent and his body perfectly healthy, the doctors released George from those sterile white walls and speckled tiles.

But he's sure that to this day, and many days forward, doctors will continue to try to figure out the miraculous cause of his sudden recovery. And he laughs to himself, because they will never know.

He's never flown on an airplane before. His portable oxygen burdened him in more ways than one. But Sapnap bounds towards his seat and practically throws himself into it, bouncing on his butt with excitement, easing some of the tension that has wormed its way into George's muscles. He slides in the seat next to Sapnap and Techno closes their section off with his big frame.

"Have you flown before?" George asks.

"A few times. Family vacations and all. But flights are always so exciting to me, 'cause like, I don't know. I like looking at the sky." Sapnap buckles himself in, grinning from ear to ear as he applauds the beginning of their trip. "We're gonna have so much fun, George! No more Google Earth for you!"

George snorts and fastens his own seatbelt, leaning back and taking a deep breath. "I love flying too," Techno inputs. "I think there's something so cool about being so high in the sky."

"For twelve whole hours!" Sapnap exclaims, and George can't tell if he's being sarcastic or not.

George sighs as he waits, an inaudible countdown playing in his head as the rules and regulations of airplane etiquette are rattled off in a video he somewhat pays attention to. When he feels the seat rumble underneath him, he shoots his parents a quick text saying, see u guys in two months!

Sapnap is the only one who cheers during the takeoff, which most people turn away from, but George can't help but laugh to himself, shaking his head in slight embarrassment as he plugs his earphones in.

He'll shut out the world for twelve hours before he enters a new one, Sapnap's fingers intertwined with his to soothe the adrenaline spiking in his bloodstream.

And after those twelve hours, he'll see a part of the world he never thought he would live to see. His breath will leave him and his tastebuds will tingle and Sapnap and Techno will be there to hold him through it all.

He can imagine his tears already.

But he's ready for it.

❀

"Hey, hey! Take a picture of me on this fountain!" Sapnap shouts, racing towards the magnificent structure among the storm cloud stones.

"Dude, are you even allowed to stand on that?" Techno cries, though he's already hot on Sapnap's trail, whipping his phone out.

"That's why we gotta do it quick!" Sapnap bursts out laughing as he gets into a position that is all too familiar to George—balancing on one leg as he extends the other out behind him, spreading his arms out, one in front and one in back of him. The photoshoot lasts about five seconds, and Sapnap hops down, head turning from side to side as he swiftly surveys the area for any disgruntled onlookers. "Think we're good! Anyone else?"

George volunteers, hopping onto the rim of the fountain as both Sapnap and Techno get into position. "How should I pose?" George asks.

"However you want! It's your moment!" Sapnap calls back, shooting him a thumbs-up.

After about three seconds of pondering, George settles for a simple spread of the arms, his face pointed towards the apricot sky. "King of the world," Sapnap jokes as George steps down, throwing an arm around him and digging his fist into the crown of his head.

Techno lays on his side for his photo, one of his legs extended and the other one bent. If he had a rose in his mouth, it would really complete the look.

"Dinner?" Sapnap suggests once all their moments are safely tucked back in their pockets. "We still have yet to find the best croissants."

"I don't know, the ones we had yesterday were pretty good," Techno says.

"There are still plenty more to try, though!"

"What would croissants even be considered as? Breakfast? Lunch? Dinner? Snack? Dessert?"

"Does it matter? It's food!"

George laughs as they take off, trailing behind the two as they argue what time of day croisGeorgets should be consumed.

They find a bakery after their actual dinner, and their croissants are indeed better than the previous day's.

❀

The soles of George's feet are sore by the time they arrive at their final destination for the night. A magnificent structure that George has only seen photographs of through mechanical lenses and computer-generated copies. He's never had the chance to view it through his own lens, and never did he think he would actually get to.

"Wow," Sapnap breathes. "Would you look at that? I could stare at it all night."

"You think you'd go blind?" Techno questions, which garners no response.

George is speechless, the lights stealing away any word he could ever form as a foreign feeling rises up in him. As if on autopilot, he finds himself reaching into his back pocket for his phone, unlocking it and scrolling through the pictures he's taken throughout his two years at university until he finds one taken three years ago.

Do you see it now?

He holds his phone up to look at both of the beautiful sights.

You know I could never forget you.

He blinks slowly, as if his eyes are camera shutters, backing up just a little bit to capture the whole tower in the frame of his phone's camera.

"Hey, that's illegal, you know!" Sapnap quips, but George has already pressed the little circular button.

"How could something so beautiful be illegal?" George asks, chuckling. "I just need to remember this."

"I get it," Sapnap says, slinging an arm around George's shoulders. "It really is beautiful."

George sighs through his nose, his shoulders sagging. "He said... photographs are some of the world's greatest inventions. You can choose which sights you want to keep."

"Well, he's right. And it sucks that it's a crime to want to keep this sight."

"What can I say? I'm an emotional rebel."

Sapnap chuckles, pulling George in closer and squeezing him in a one-armed hug. He's forgoing words in case he might say something wrong. George appreciates it though, as unnecessary as it is. He leans in, resting his head on Sapnap's shoulder.

"This is a miracle," he thinks to the air.

Sapnap gives him an amused grunt. "A miracle for a miracle." He turns his head and presses a kiss to George's temple. "Our little miracle."

"Cute!" Techno shouts, guffawing as he charges the two and peppers more kisses to George's head and cheek.

George is near breathless from laughing and trying to push the two giants off of him, tears springing in his eyes, though he can't exactly pinpoint the cause.

The laughing? The nostalgia? The pain?

Everything loaded into one golden moment, gold stars, gold lights, gold sprinkled everywhere George can see.

An idyllic painting, a sip from an infinity.

Just one of many.

Can you see it?

Something monumental manifests in his core, unfurling across his body, blooming like a flower.

This feeling, this utter awe, like being struck by a shooting star, is something Dream would feel upon seeing his favorite sight.

George takes another step back, opening his phone for another picture.

This is it, Dream.

He presses the button again.

This is what we are.

"Hey, do birds usually come at night?"

We are a walking miracle.

"Beats me."

"There's so many of them!"

George breathes in deeply, closing his eyes as he puts his phone away, locking his golden moment away at the same time a flock of birds soar through the myriad of brilliant lights.

And this is a little piece of our forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for this adventure! This was my first fic, and I was quite nervous...but yall's comments are making me feel better! I dont know what I'll write next, but I know it'll be something haha!


End file.
